


Magnanimous

by CommonSenseisPaineful



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020), Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Episode: S01E01 The Rules of the Beast, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Child Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Relationship Negotiation, Slow Burn, The AU where Jonathan's landing into the river doesn't go quite as planned, look it's pretty dark sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonSenseisPaineful/pseuds/CommonSenseisPaineful
Summary: “Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte. / Above the crucifix I bent my head: / The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead : / And yet I bowed, yea, kissed- my lips did cling/ (I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)" - 'Maundy Thursday', Wilfred Owen.~or the continuation of episode one, where Jonathan is not so lucky in his fall, and Dracula is oh so generous.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker, Jonathan Harker/Mina Harker
Comments: 144
Kudos: 527





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> “Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.”- 'Paradise Lost', John Milton.
> 
> Inspired largely by episode one of the BBC Dracula miniseries, but also with an avid appreication for the Gothic.
> 
> Enjoy,

Tap, tap, tap.

He’d never been the dreaming type, but somehow this is not how he imagined death.

Jonathan had been told of a darkness, a light, then- what? All secrets and smoke pressed in the folds of a book. It didn’t mention how his insides would burn with cold fire. The tickle of the trickle of fluid over his brow. The sounds:

Tap.

His head felt disconnected from his body, like when he was gripped with a winter’s fever. Except he could still feel, he could still hear:

Tap.

He wasn’t aware if his eyes were closed, or if he was blinded. Even both. Somewhere, nearby, he heard running water flowing. He heard:

Crack.

His world shot through with blinding pain, and Jonathan opened an eye to the unfeeling blackness. No, not blackness- but another, another’s own eye staring down at him. He blinked, and the world cocked its head in vague amusement. He groaned.

The raven held out its wings, releasing a claw from Jonathan’s skull. It watched him beadily as he struggled for breath, twitching his limbs. It eyed the slowly draining wound on his head, remorseful, and flew away.

As the bird took to the skies, Jonathan took a moment to remember. Remembering like the inky creature, so too had the silhouette of that dark castle had shrunken from view. How he had felt weightless, and felt for sure that this- this must be death. He supposed, as he remembered how to pull his muscles to breathe, that death wasn’t done with him yet.

He felt a cold sensation by his toes, and he almost flinched in fear of another carrion. Sitting up with a wince, he noticed how it was the lappings of a river, breaking against its bank. The water was dark, but cold, and the nerves in his feet trickled with delight. He could still feel things, that was good. One must look for silver linings. He could still see, he could still feel, he could still breathe…

His chest spasmed, and he choked on the air. Spitting up flecks of red into the pale mud. No, not choking on the air. Something else. He felt around on his neck, only just beginning to regain sensation. His skin was cool, but not deathlike. Not like a corpse. His fingers came away with traces of mud and a dark line of crimson. He lead   
his hands upwards, just under his jugular, where they could no longer go. Something was impaled in his throat. 

It’s funny, how shock works. He thought to himself, just beginning to hyperventilate, that a few moments ago he would never have noticed. That he didn’t even feel the urge to breathe anymore, but only in doing so he had discovered it. His hands shook, but he had to do something. Jonathan wasn’t sure if he was dead, or something else- but now he was awake? He wanted to keep it that way. 

The object was solid, dense, and thankfully only embedded a couple inches into his flesh. The part where it met skin was covered in a layer of hot liquid- his blood he presumed. The rest of it jutted outwards, with two protrusions from either side making quite a convenient handle. All he had to do, was pull.

At a time like this, one tries to think of when it’s been worse, when one had put up with a pain so strong that they could survive anything. Yet as Jonathan pulled, his mind was fascinated on the exquisite agony such an object could endure in him. No broken arm, or skinned knee could compare to the mortal wound. Or maybe it was the other way around? Knowing he could survive, was more of a torture of trying to. If he lay there, dying, watching the world blur around him, he could have pulled it out like a splinter. What did he have to lose?

The thing came out with a crack, and Jonathan immediately began to cough and heave- his windpipe finally unconstricted. A brief concern of the lack of blood flow from his wound flittered across his mind as he lifted the object up to examine it. His impaler- his stake. Rubbing his thumb across it, he saw gold glitter underneath, tiny jewels around the edge.

It was the crucifix.

All he could do was breathe, feeling the light fade little by little around him. He had to endure. For England. For those Dracula would kill. For Mina.  
He leant over the little bay he was in, washing the scarlet off the gold with the murky river water. It was at least clean, maybe it could still work? The band of string was   
still around his neck, and Jonathan prayed, tying little knots in it until the cross was rebound. 

Each knot seemed to take hours, or maybe the sun set faster in this circle of hell. He watched the red rays peek out over the mountain-tops for what felt like the first time. Like long red fingers, pointing. Jonathan held the cross, and he crawled backwards, further into the undergrowth of the surrounding forest. He wasn’t more than five metres away from the river, yet could conceal himself easily enough with the litter and rot. Maybe he could swim out, when daylight comes. Maybe he could find help. 

Maybe _he_ wouldn’t be able to scent him.

There was blood, enough, Jonathan knew. Dracula had noticed with one drop of blood on the mirror, not this river of it. But still, a thought paced, the blood of the dead? Would Dracula be able to, with this stench of earthy decay surrounding his old scent? It was in the water now, and he could follow that like a pike- believing him swept out to sea, rather than hiding in the forest like a dying animal. He had to pray Dracula wouldn’t be able to find him. He had to pray for old blood.

He had to pray for sunlight.


	2. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.” 'Paradise Lost', John Milton  
> ~  
> or escape, interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interest in this little thing, as promised I'm quite excited to update regularly.
> 
> Enjoy,

It is sometimes said, that just on the cusp of nightfall, the sun glitters.

When the last ray drowns under the bold peaks of the mountaintops, and the final wisps of red on the clouds fade to black- it’s sometimes said. At these last moments, you could watch the scarlet sky dance on the water’s surface, skimming it’s splashes like skipping stones. The last flash at the barred window, welcoming the night and all its friends.

Jonathan did not remember himself drifting into a light and formless sleep, huddled in moss and leaf litter. The last flash of that amber light just a whisper, plunging the forest into a deeper silence. His body felt heavy, and he barely clung onto the trickle of the river not so far from his resting place.

His hiding place.

If he had been any more awake, he would have thought it strange how quickly the world seemed to plunge into quietness. Like the final toll, the air seemed to thrum with abandoned sounds. The light and all music being extinguished at once; the forest holding it’s breath.

Whilst nodding, nearly napping, Jonathan couldn’t find himself to dream. The shapes of his memory too hazy to watch, and his eyes blinked open in the darkness. This time, blissfully, it was a darkness he knew. He first thought he could hardly distinguish the days and nights inside the disturbed castle, it’s thick walls a prison from the outside world. But little by little, he learned. He wasn’t a fool. The air lay different in the dark- it was thinner, like newly spun sugar. The sound of his own breathing seemed to break that, like the castles atmosphere was unaccustomed to such an act. He was right then, in a couple ways.

Maybe it was the absolute darkness of his huddle, but Jonathan could make out more of his surroundings than he could remember. The soft scrapings in the mud where he had dragged himself, the crushed leaves, the blood- still shining. 

He wanted to dream of Mina. Her face seemed to be behind layers of silk, a shape he could not make out no matter how hard he tried to conjure her. His beloved Mina, the one whose letters he had clung to by his heart on the nights where the castle was too still, too lonely. Whose picture he had not packed with his other necessaries, but kept in his breast pocket for the journey. Its weight on his heart reminded him of home, something he would sacrifice every valuable he had to keep that image. And now it was lost- crumpled in a crate up there in that dreaded place. A face he couldn’t remember, a picture lost in what was supposed to be his final resting place. Jonathan felt like he had failed her.

He exhaled, watching his breath barely conjure a fog. He must be so cold, yet, didn’t feel any chill. The water sparkled a little in the moonlight. Obscured by cloud, the light was murky and pale- spreading like ink across the whole sky. Jonathan watched the water, the clouds, the strange shape of some dark bird fly over the treeline.  
He wondered what would happen to Mina. Despite that he could not see her face, the feelings in his heart were no lessened at the keen remembrance of her. She would know. Somewhere, somehow, she would know that he was not coming back. She wouldn’t receive the final letter until a couple of weeks from now, and that thought made him visibly wince. How she’d never even know what became of him, likely a beaten body in a ditch would haunt her. That was better than this however, he thought, idly outstretching his hand. This thing, Mina would no sooner recognise than he could her.

He almost felt too dizzy to sleep again, swept on a tide of his own thoughts and nausea. He felt so… empty. Is this what death was like? He longed for something a little more than life- Mina’s embrace, seeing England again. Would it even be possible now, such a dream? He squeezed his eyes shut in a prayer, hoping that when they opened something would come true. That daylight would stretch and lap at his feet, beckoning Jonathan to swim. The water was his best plan. His only plan, he admitted to himself, but still- something! The river currents looked strong from where he sat, strong enough to pull him with little effort. Being swept out to sea was an improvement at any rate. But wait, his mind conjured, what if there was some unseen danger? A ravine, or rocky falls that could crush him under the water, would drowning be worth it? Could he even drown? Feeling the prickle of anxiety, Jonathan leaned forward and peered out of his rest. Out there, if he just stretched out a little more, the river drifted onwards for what seemed like a mile. There was thick forest either side of the banks, but no dangerous precipice. He began to sigh, pulling back as his eyes gazed along the river banks. Harsh sloping levees where saplings had begun to sprout, not nearly bigger than his arm, and then… a shape.

A dark and form-ful shadow that stood on the forests edge.

He could have sworn he felt his heart stop.

A shape he had seen so many times. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow lurking down staircases, a figure he’d defined by its hard lines as he dined opposite it. Count Dracula stood by the river bank, like a grotesque statue, a hard cut in the world where Jonathan could see his outline of perfect black against the shadowy darkness. He was waiting for him.

The water seemed to be silent as the pumping of his own heart thrummed in his ears. His body absolutely still, he choked on a whimper. He had nowhere to run, wouldn’t make it to the water. His upper body was still half exposed in the moonlight, it draping across his face and arms like water. He daren’t move, but he couldn’t let himself be seen. He knew- he knew, that it would only take one twitch and he’d have him. The phantom fangs dragged along his throat again, and Jonathan tried not to wince. This, this was worse than drowning.

Dracula seemed almost motionless, not even a whisper of light could touch him. He was the ink blot of the canvas, a harsh pencil scratch that demanded Jonathan look- that he consume. It was such stillness that made him afraid- like at any moment he could tear him apart. With one breath, suddenly his cold fingers would be wrapped again around his throat. 

Jonathan held his breath. No longer feeling the burn of it, but rather needed the security of stillness. Second by second, he began to push himself back into the nook in the leaves and roots he had found for himself. His body aching for the sweet darkness, the safety of it. For what seemed like hours, he stared at that figure, as he inched himself back. The leaves underfoot were damp, thankfully, and made no sound above the bubbling water. Dracula turned a little, and he froze, but he was so close! He was almost there! All but his neck and head where embraced in that shadow, and it was intoxicating. The Count seemed to be staring out at something near him in the water, his head held up like a wolf’s on a scent. Jonathan breathed, and as his chest rose something there glittered. Something caught his eye in the moonlight, a flicker of reflected light around his neck. The cross lay on his trembling chest, beaming like a firefly. The light skimmed across the surface of the water for a split second, like a skipping stone. 

Jonathan’s breath died in his chest, as when he looked up he locked eyes with a pair so dark, and so red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This crucifix really ain't helping ya buddy.
> 
> If you like this, or just want to yell at me ideas or prompts or how your is going please leave a comment! They are the fuel for my fire of creativity. I've got quite a few chapters lined up already, so any suggestions might not arise for a while. This is so intriguing to write, and I'm glad I get to share this with you.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.” 'The Metamorphosis', Franz Kafka
> 
> ~
> 
> Cards are lain on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to square one, pass go and collect two-hundred.  
> ~  
> It's nice to be back indoors again isn't it?

For what seemed the second time in a day, Jonathan felt weightless.

The first time was almost exhilarating. The freefall was only a few seconds, interrupted by blinding impact- but it was dreamlike. Like a nightmare where one falls and falls until you fall awake in your own bed, sweating into the sheets. The strange prickling feeling of his nerves, knowing that nothing was supporting him, and that the wind he felt was more than just a passing breeze. 

This time, he hardly even knew what was happening. 

Instead of falling into the golden sunset, he found himself floating in the darkness, not a whisper of wind. No, he wasn’t quite floating, his nerve endings reminded him. There was a pressure around the small of his back and legs. He struggled to recognise it in the fogginess of fainting- coming to ever so to an increasingly dark world. He could only make out the very tops of the trees in his view, their sprawling branches rising above him like parapets. Even the moonlight didn’t seem to penetrate whatever depth of the forest he was in. Feeling dizzy, he gave in again to that feeling of weightlessness. Only, just before he closed his eyes, he rested his head on something cool, and gentle. He barely noticed the effort his carrier took to soften his steps over every root and branch in the forest.

He moved unnaturally quickly, although that word hardly applied to just one aspect of the Count. Jonathan slept uneasily, but he did sleep- the moonlight grazing his eyelids like a tender hand. The mountains were steep, and there was no simple way to climb with such precious cargo, so Jonathan slept under the light of the moon until the shadow of the castle beckoned to them. In some ways it was almost fate, to return here. His demise and conception, unified in a singular point. Becoming something more. 

Jonathan didn’t have the consciousness to ponder that idea. He felt swallowed whole. Chewed up by the fall. He couldn’t distinguish his own lulled heartbeat from the footsteps on the cold floors, his mind consumed in darkness. Silence and darkness are just names that we give to the moments our senses fail us. The dark is almost like silence in many ways. It’s wide, so vast that even a little pocket of blackness feels like miles. And its sudden. It’s the blowing out of the candle- the light extinguished before you’ve taken your first breath. It’s the sunset too- darkness creeps up on you until you peer behind yourself and see the walls of night closing in. The silence and the darkness are so very big. A key difference, his last thought supplied, a most important difference. Jonathan felt his eyes truly slipping into desperate sleep this time.

Only one of them is ever truly empty.

~

Jonathan awoke to the warm sun on his face.

Blinking into the light, awareness came to him slowly, like the shards of a dream he was trying to remember. He was lying on softer sheets than before, in the room he once called his own. His head ached, and when he rolled over he noticed the spot of scarlet on his pillow. The room almost seemed brighter for the light, bigger. The heavy, draping curtains were still there, but pulled back, spilling the sunlight over the bed and floor. He wished he could open a window, the smell of age still lingering in the air despite the new sheets. As he tried to sit up a stabbing pain jolted through his chest, like his ribcage was being ripped in two. Breathing heavily, he laid back down, his hands clutching at his heart. The crucifix was gone.

Jonathan resigned himself to his own breaths- counting them until the pain dampened a little. The sun was a blessing, he could have wept. He almost felt himself keening at its warmth, a touch he hadn’t had for days. It swept over his brow like gentle fingers, and bled golden on the floor like locks of hair. He didn’t wish to move from it, entranced. 

Blinking in the light, one could almost forgive him from not noticing the shadow that lingered in the corner of the room.

“Johnny…”

His blood would have frozen, if he hadn’t been so certain that the last dregs of it lay in the veins of the shadow that spoke. Turning to the sound, he noticed how the ray of light starkly stopped before the door, splitting the room in two. In the darkness, coiled in a chair, Dracula sat- grinning.

“Look at you.” His breath was almost a whisper, and seemed like the closest to awe he could get. 

Jonathan flinched, the flash of teeth dragging memories from the depths. He almost felt like pulling up the blankets around him, like a child. Dracula was leaning against the chair, just staring, staring like- Jonathan shuddered. A strange part of him wanted to say that he looked almost impressed, a look in his eyes like a man gazing at his home after a long journey.

“No, no-“ he tried to get up again, pushing himself upwards. His arms shuddered, then collapsed completely. He flopped back down to the pillow with a huff.

“Easy, Johnny, easy, you need rest yet-“ Dracula rose up out of his chair, a line of concern in his face. Still smiling.

“No I- I need to-“ he tried. He felt breathless, paralysed by the weight of his own body. The racking pain in his chest came back twice as strong, making him double over.

“Easy.”

When he opened his eyes, lying on his side clutching his chest, his gaze immediately met his. Hungry, dark brown eyes that seemed like embers of fire- the coal’s left untouched. A cold chill ran down his spine as those eyes seemed to penetrate every dream he’d had for the past month, somehow without him realising it until now.

“You’re remarkable. Look at you- you’re still here, you’ve even remembered breathing. Johnny you’re perfect.” He drew out the last word, his gaze crawling up Jonathan’s thin form under the sheets.

“I don’t want to be here.” He whispered, all he could manage.

“Ah, but you are.” And Dracula stood up from where he had kneeled by his bedside. Face only inches away from his own, demarcated by the golden strip of sunlight that poured off the bedsheets.

As Jonathan stared, the Count seemed to look different. Maybe it was finally knowing exactly what the beast was, but he looked a little older than he could recall. Not in the greying hair, or the lines on his cheek, but his eyes. Something about how he stared at him, behind the predatory delight, was anxiously pacing.

“What are you going to do to me?”

Dracula paused in his gaze, like he had only just noticed Jonathan was still alive. Or at least, as alive as he could be. He squinted in thought, before smiling back to him.

“Simply watch you, Johnny. Watch your metamorphosis.”

He almost seemed irritated by the divide in the room, how he couldn’t grasp Jonathan’s neck for effect, or hold his head up to meet his eye. Jonathan could smile at that, barely extending his neck, watching as Dracula’s gaze was so distracted from the menace he was trying to imply.

“You want to change me. I won’t do it.” He spoke, feeling his voice faint, but resolute. He felt his hands tremble as he met Dracula’s eyes, shaking his head.

“Johnny-“ he chuckled, stalking around to the foot of the bed as far as the light would let him, “I already have. It’s merely a matter of time and some, uh, sustenance.”

“No. I won’t.” he winced at the thought. That bride, she had been starving. More than starving, for such a living creature would have perished into bones long ago. Ravenous. He wouldn’t become that. He wouldn’t sacrifice his humanity for life.

“Is this what kept you going? Is this what makes you different?” he tilted his head, half examining him, his words sceptical. He seemed to look broodingly like he could read his thoughts, which even now Jonathan wasn’t certain that he couldn’t.

“The others just wanted to live, I could taste that. Their final heartbeat was screaming for it. You would rather die, wouldn’t you, than be like them?” he cocked his head, smile languid and eyes ever so sharp.

“Always.” His resolution hardened under the sun, he rose to the bait, staring back.

Dracula was the first to turn away, breaking the line of sight. Behind him, his cape swirled, pausing at the door.

“If only you could.” Dracula spoke like in song, and then with a slam, he was gone. 

Jonathan felt alone, and that was a comfort. There was still much daylight left, he guessed from the light, he had time. He felt almost, that under this light he could do it. He could stay here, hardening himself from the impulses that had already begun to crave and scratch from inside. Wouldn’t that be perfect? He could close his eyes in this light, submit to darkness in gold, and not be left in the unsure night that Dracula promised him. He could do it, he would. He had such little strength, the weight of his bones more than his body could lift. Dreaming of the light, of Mina, he could drift away.

He closed his eyes, seeing muted scarlet patterns of sunlight filtering through his veins. Counting a breath, mumbling a prayer, he dreamed. Of sunlight flickering through Mina’s hair, of her laugh, her embrace. He fell into the darkness, hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I use to many quotes? Do I care? Not so much, because I believe in epigraphs. Nothing is really original, but we would rather stick our signs in the ground and point: there! That's what I'm saying.
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed this one. As a post further and further to what I am currently writing I get a little excited. People's comments have been really wonderful to read, so thank you!
> 
> Again any ideas, suggestions or scenes you'd like to see comment below. I'll accept yelling too.
> 
> x


	4. Pandæmonium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If only you could."- Jonathan makes a valiant effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, aka no pain no gain.  
> Thank you for all that have been reading so far, I'll be on a tiny hiatus from the 24th because of travelling, but I'll do my best to keep you enthralled.
> 
> Enjoy x

Sunlight.

Warm, dappled sunlight stretching on his skin. Lapping at his body, like a pool. Pushing its fingers across his chest leaving behind blood raised streaks.

Scraping against his skin, his flesh, burning more intense than any fire. Sticking, suffocating pain, as sunlight flowed down his nose and throat. Gagging on molten gold, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, the light tore his eyes. He couldn’t breathe!

A cough retched its way up his throat, and he staggered awake choking. Clutching his hands to his throat, wanting to tear at it. He coughed, and his ribs seemed to collapse inwards with a burning hollow scrape. It burnt. He couldn’t breathe. Literally, his diaphragm seemed seized in a gag. All he could manage were meagre chokes, fingers still twitching at his throat.

Somehow the twitching didn’t go away, even without air.

He felt like he was falling, his eyes darting from darkness to darkness. He could still be dreaming, but the agony in his chest was a sullen reminder of being awake. Barely able to move, not feeling anything but the caving, stiffening pain in his chest. Cries choked on air, and he wanted to scream. He couldn’t, he-

His addled mind feebly registered some cool pressure on his chest, above his heart. The feeling multiplied, and swept its way up to his head. The gentleness of it baffled him, like a dream, as it brushed his cheek. Like a soft waking, his eyes flickered- only now realising that the darkness had been them being shut. His surroundings were the same, but bathed in a new light. Blue- deepest blue, like he was underwater. Earliest light of the day, before even the fingertips of sunlight could peer over the mountains. 

And in the midst of that blue, there he was. A dark shape, still all of harsh angles, bent over him. Jonathan flinched, only causing his cough to worsen until darkness started to blur again at the edges of his vision. The figure, knelt closer, moving his hands to Jonathan’s own. Somehow, with words unspoken, it asked permission.

Despite the blue tinge, his eyes were still the burning brown he’d known in his dreams. And like always, there-in that hazy mindless place-Jonathan gave in.

With cool fingers, Dracula lifted Jonathan’s hands from his neck, intertwining his fingers in his own. He placed them on the soft down sheets, tapping his palms for good measure with a fingertip, like an impatient teacher. Then, doing something quick and sharp he could hardly see, he raised his hand back to Jonathan’s throat. Pressing a fingertip to his lips, shushing him. The fingertip tapped insistently, and in opening his mouth to speak he found himself utterly silenced. Pushed to his lips, his thoughts were distracted from the blush-rising notion of what was happening, lost in the most pleasant of sensations; consuming.

The coolness spread down his throat like a balm, and his chest began to rise and fall without pain. Blinking into the light, Jonathan noticed the dark shine of blood on his finger, dripping into his awaiting mouth. Hungry, ever so hungry- his lips did not pull away in disgust, or even quiver. He was not an unsentimental man, he thought himself. Nor was he inexperienced, but the absence and relief from pain was greater a pleasure than any drug or concoction. The press of pain upon yourself, the crushing like a bug under a boot- its lift is ecstasy. 

The Count seemed so consumed in his task, allowing Jonathan precious time of lucidness to observe him in this new tint. He was kneeling by his bedside, his dark cape swept beside him onto the floor like a lady’s skirt. His face was crumpled in worry, or was it pride? He wasn’t sure, as his eyes gave nothing away, looking only to where his own bitter blood met Jonathan’s lips. The hands he had revered from the relief they gave were as still as tombstones. Poised above his face and resting on his chest, palm to his heart. The nails were as sharp as ever, but, was that some sort of shape he could make out on his palm? Like a burn, white tinged skin, a cross on his hand from thumb to index.

As fast as the relief was given, it was gone- as Dracula’s eyes seemed to tear away from Jonathan. He could breathe again, but sleep was chasing him too quickly to let him revel in it. Dracula hardly seemed to notice that he was awake, rather dancing a hand over his forehead and throat, measuring with his fingers the non-existent heartbeat. A quick glance to the window, and Jonathan could taste it. Only a few hours left, not enough time- the impatience within him was like a child. He raged at the thought of sunlight stripping Jonathan from him again, a taste of aniseed on just a drop of blood. Not enough time, not enough, for who? Pale memories of a village flashed over his mind with the resounding thought of _feed_. Yet it wasn’t a selfish one, as Dracula’s hunger did not stab at each thought like his own. No, it was… generous. 

Swirling the decision round on his tongue, Jonathan watched as the Count twitched the bindings of the curtains- the golden ropes that kept them hung. He paused, admiring. Then, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reflecting on some rather wonderful comments about Jonathan's character that really made me smile, and I only hope I can do some shadow of the same for Dracula. This story has unfolded in scope since I first started writing, partly thanks to your lovely ideas, which I'm quite excited to do.   
> As I mentioned, tiny hiatus, yadda yadda travelling and won't have laptop blah. I'll do my best to come back inspired.  
> If you want to yell at me, drop an idea or just say "hey! this is an extra kudos!" leave a comment. They do make me smile.  
> Thank you again for reading, and see you very soon. x
> 
> p.s can you guess again my obsession with a particular book in the title?


	5. Bookish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freely the stood, and freely they fell: the devil from heaven, the angel from hell.  
> ~  
> or the one where intertextuality enters stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my travelling hiatus! Strap in and strap on folks for some plottage in the following days. Before you read though, I want to know if there is any particular schedule/posting times you guys prefer? I'm in GMT, and tend to post around midnight.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter, it's a long one.

Time drew slowly on him, like the patient scrawl of a child learning to write for the first time.

It took a while, but he learnt to measure it by the sunlight. The light would creep through the curtains, twisting from one corner of the room to the other. Sometimes it would drag across the floor, like heavy skirts. Other times he would just blink, and the sunset’s red fingertips were grasping at the bars at the window.

He still couldn’t dream.

He preoccupied his days with thoughts of back home. The bumpy carriage ride where he had reread Mina’s letter perhaps a hundred times to imprint it in his memory. He was trying to remember that. In the daylight, he would think over it until his mind scratched back a letter, a mark on the page- a victory he enjoyed as much as the light. With every discovery he was a little closer to remembering, a little closer to home. Maybe one day he could write himself into that letter, pressing his mind between its delicate pages. His whole life, summarised, in black ink on white.

Red or white.

The most distracting thing of his predicament was his host. He could guess by now that he had been shut in this room for at least a week. Shut in was rather a loose term, as he didn’t have the strength to rattle the door and know if it was locked. Doors were hardly ever locked in this castle. They didn’t need to be. Dracula was right, in this room with no lock he was trapped.

Dracula had remained the most perplexing thing. Since first waking up, again in that stone-walled room, he had never seen him during the day. Which was strange, because Jonathan had believed that all pretences were off by now. He knew what he was, was becoming something like that himself. The walls were thick enough to make the interior a perpetual night, so he had no need to skulk around in the shadows. And yet… his room. The only one with something still living or thereabouts in it, was the one with light. He had chewed on the idea for a while. Was it to torment him? To soothe him? Naked of all his protections except one, the cage of sunlight.   
Whatever the Count was planning, Jonathan always awoke to a full and warm cup.

It had been little more than a week, when he first dared to leave. He felt like when he was a child. Dizzy with scarlet fever, clinging onto the bedsheets like a drowned man in a shipwreck. The floor was cold, and hard, as he dropped himself onto it. As he raised his hands to balance himself, he noticed just how loose his shirt felt around his shoulders. Pushed down almost by his thin frame, exposing his collarbones. He had decency still, which the Englishman in him much appreciated. 

The room was very much the same as he remembered. If a little neater in his absence, like someone had ravaged through his belongings, then meticulously hid them away. The thick curtains were velvet, and soft. The words on the window were very faint, healing like scars almost. More like spiderweb patterns than messages now. The outside world seemed more like a picture in a storybook. Miles and miles of forest, with a winding road that barely dented the thick canopy. It was just as impenetrable as an illustration. The birds may as well have been inkblots, the trees pencil scratchings- for he was sure he would never touch it again. Even at this distance, the thin pine smell was on the breeze.

And something else.

Motion drew his gaze down from the skyline, to the break in the trees. There, half shadowed in leaves, stood a stag. It was grazing, its form like an artists brushstroke. It was the first living thing he had seen in days. As he stared, he could almost imagine the thick carpet of grass and moss under its hooves. On its head, it had the most magnificent antlers- reaching out like two outstretched hands. They were newly shed, gleaming almost in the sun. Threads of velvet hung to the side, exposing the red bone underneath. The deer paused, then rubbed its head against a tree, scratching at the bark. It left behind a crimson stain, and Jonathan felt something very deep within him itch. He could be going mad, but he swore, could he smell it? There was something in the air, more than just the taint of pine, something far richer. Something like silk, that made him shiver, and startle as he noticed his own panting. He only tore his gaze away from that stain when something new bled into in the air. Another, this time from his own hands, as he realised he had been scratching at his fingers. Unconsciously clawing, until faint speckles of blood drew to the surface. He raised the wound to his lips, and in a facsimile of healing, tasted.

“Don’t.” the shadow spoke.

He turned, lips still painted with himself. Dracula was barely in the doorway, like he was worried that the sun would turn on him. Scenting blood, he was nothing but shadows and sharp lines.

“What? What do you want?” he spat, feebly trying to be intimidating despite the fact he was wavering on his feet.

“Do not do that Jonathan. I forbid you.”

There was no trace of that concern he had glimpsed nights ago, only barely simmering anger. Something about him seemed very out of control, and disturbed him. The was no chuckle behind his words, just a glare.

“You? What control do you have over me now?” he could almost laugh, that the man who had taken everything from him still wanted more. He felt on the edge of hysterics, like the taste of blood had plucked his heartstrings.

“You are mine Johnny, I will not allow it.” Dracula took a bold step forward, carefully prowling by the walls as near as the sunlight would allow him. He looked down at his own feet, bathed in the light, and smiled:

“No.”

The sunlight tingled a little on his skin as dragged a fingertip over his lips, tasting the remainder of his own blood. In the past he would have been horrified at such a lurid display, but from the sheer rage it seemed to incite in the Count he was willing to forgive himself this temptation. He lurched forward, his cape brushing into the light. A hair’s breadth away, and he watched as Dracula’s hands twitched a fraction, like they longed to grab him.

“You cannot, you- I will not let you go savage.” He growled, teeth almost bared.

“To me you already have.” Jonathan quipped, feeling stronger. There was a faintest moment where Dracula’s eyes almost betrayed a thought. Like in a blink he’d said: There you are, my Johnny. And in an instant it was gone.

“I will not let you. You are the most perfect one.” He snarled, his eyes growing darker. Or was it red, red on white?

“-And I will not let you change me Count Dracula!”

His shout echoed against the walls. He held his breath, waiting for the grab, the bite, that never came. Dracula seemed to seethe against the walls of his own making, but fell quiet. He paused, his face swept over with a look he’d never seen before.

“I make you free. Those creatures in the crates, my brides, they were free too, Jonathan. Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.”

His eyes raked over Jonathan’s form, and for the first time since falling he felt self-conscious. Aware of the bloody specks under his fingernails, the emaciated skin. Even his hands were more bone then flesh, like the ones that had torn at him months ago. His tongue curled at Dracula’s words, not just the memory it evoked but also of the twisted message he saddled as his own.

“Don’t mock that meaning.”

Memories of schooling were faint, but he did remember staying up at candlelight to read that poem. Tales of demons, angels, heaven and hell- it kept him up at night. He’d never really left behind that shadow of fascination.

“I am that meaning better than anyone Johnny.” He stepped back, smiling. It didn’t seem genuine this time- no wicked delight hidden behind those irises. “You cannot die like this, I think some part of you knows that. You will retreat into your own place, and make hell.”

How long had he been here now? The date floated by him, lost in a sea of all other memories. Nothing had any significance anymore, he could no less hope to remember his past than the sailor had at catching seabirds with fishing hooks.

“Itself can make a heaven of hell, I remember, Dracula. I can.” He said, more affirming it to himself. Dracula laughed, a cold and steely laugh hiding a growl.

“Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.”

Dracula straightened himself, stepping back from the threshold like he was irritated at the sunlight. Something in him had closed, taking no more discussion. It was like the look when he had driven a stake through that poor girls heart.

“You will stay here until you drink.” He demanded.

Jonathan stepped forward to argue, but felt his knees finally buckle, and instead fell onto the windowsill. He clutched at the bars, still glaring at the dark figure. He would not give in. He would not plead with it. Dracula’s mouth formed a thin line of disdain. 

“You will not live and you will not die Jonathan, what sort of choice do you think you’re making?”

His legs wanted to crumble, and he felt his grip slipping on the metal. He hissed in pain to the empty air, sinking to his knees.

“The right one.” He gasped, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny has got some bite in him after all!   
> I'm back and whilst exhausted I thought I'd leave this little offering to you guys. I'll get writing more tomorrow, but I am too travel-weary now to do anymore but post this.  
> What's been happening? How's the world turning? I feel out of the loop. Leave me a comment on how this is going, or whatever fics or fan stuff you're really into at the moment, I'm curious.  
> Anyways, comments power my motivation blah blah have a nice night everyone because I know you should be asleep when you're reading this.  
> Thank you x


	6. Hedonist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.  
> ~  
> or the arena is set, and the chess pieces are knocked asunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that in some ways Dracula was a tribute by Bram Stoker to the trial of Oscar Wilde? Hmm, I wonder how that is useful...
> 
> Enjoy.  
> x

For a moment, everything was quite perfect.

No, his mind supplied, nothing was perfect, but better in a way. His small defiance seemed magnified, enormous- and it made Jonathan smile. The little chinks in Dracula’s well fitted armour began to show under the sunlight, and that- that was beautiful. Tiny reflections where he could see more than the monster on the outside. 

Catching his breath, he raised himself off the floor slowly. In some ways, he felt more powerful than ever before. In taking everything from him, he had nothing to lose, he was dead. And aren’t the dead free? Luxuriating in the earth, or wallowing on the wind. People would think him so soon enough. He couldn’t die- that Dracula had admitted in a slip of the tongue- so he could escape. He was slow, yes, but he wasn’t stupid.

Emboldened, Jonathan limped across the room, crossing the precipice of the light and shadow with only a flinch. He wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t unsure anymore.

A peek down the corridor revealed nothing but shadows. Somewhere, behind some turn in the path was light- beckoning. It flickered against the cold stone walls, barely touching his door. So, he was not neglected light then, even if he was too weak to see it. Strange, he pondered, taking a breath before hobbling out the room. If he leant against the wall, dragging his hand on it for support, he could walk well enough. Everything in him still felt tight- like a coiled wire. His hands itched for something he refused to think about, and a part of him seemed to bay in hunger. He limped on.

Jonathan could vaguely remember the layout of this section of the castle- foggy images of his patchwork map coming to mind. He wouldn’t be able to find a way out yet, he sighed to himself in disappointment, but this was a start! It was very likely Dracula had found it, although he was too fascinated in Jonathan’s own dying up on the parapet than any scraps of paper. He wouldn’t have burned them- that was certain. He was learning little things about the Count, and his rabid craving for new- the novel knowledge- he was sure about. Maybe he had taken the pieces to examine in the night- memorising his own home for the first time. He had given Dracula his greatest weapon, yes, but also his weakness. The light grew a little stronger, a set of candles decorating a doorway. He would find a way out.

As he placed his palms on the heavy wood and pushed, he realised that it was a place he had seen before. The room didn’t feel darker, in fact it had many more candles lit, yet it felt somehow smaller, claustrophobic. It was the study, a room Dracula had waved his hand at that first night they had met, declaring it was for his use if he needed it. The walls were dark mahogany, stretching from floor to ceiling were dense bookshelves with coiled engravings running up its spine. An old chair sat tucked into a desk, vaguely lined with some red velvet that had long gone unused, yet there were no cobwebs. The desk was a formidable thing, wood so dark it looked charred. He had tried to work there, once or twice. Yet something about this room had unnerved him, maybe it was the heavy look of the interior, like it might collapse in on him. Or how the bookshelves covered every wall, even the window as he discovered one day, searching for a breeze. The books made a pleasing tapping rhythm as he ran his hand along them, walking around the room. There were many volumes here he couldn’t read, vast amounts in German or Romanian. Yet, there was something else strange, he tried to remember as he began scanning the books. Ah, his finger paused on one’s spine. He pulled it out, it’s lush leather-bound cover almost shining. It was of a deep purple, tinged with crimson thread. He flicked it open, feeling the pages fall for him like delicate leaves.

_‘We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us-‘_ he read. This was it, the strange thing. Despite the age of the room, how the air stagnated like it hadn’t seen the sun in years, some of the books were new. He had noticed it the last time he had ventured here, packing up a couple of things, a glint of a freshly bound cover.

_‘The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification.’_ He continued, but holding the book in one hand he began to pull out more with his other. Other, shining covers, fell to the floor with a soft thump. They were all new, and in English. It seemed like an odd detail at the time, especially because this was not the only library in the castle, not even the biggest. Why fit the most desolate of rooms with the finest things?

_‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’_

He felt a flicker of a smile in tossing these books. They formed a trail behind him like shiny beetles, at least a dozen. Covers so rich- golden spines, or red leather bound, even the pages were thick like cream. 

_‘Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.’_

Was this monstrous? Was this-

The book in his hand slipped, trailing through his fingers and landing on the floor with a dull thud. His hands felt suddenly very cold, and the thrum of blood in his veins was so loud. He could feel it under the floorboards, in the air. He too slipped, and the crack of his knees against the floor was barely audible to him.

The blood, however, that it bore, was overwhelming.

His vision blurred, so his hands began to scrabble at his own clothes, tearing a little at his trouser cuff. He felt possessed, in an ecstasy not his own, and his own howling was a stranger’s. The fabric gave way, and he froze in sight of it. Barely even scarlet anymore, but heavy beads of dark blood on his skin. Like pearls, and he lunged.

Unfortunately for the itch inside him, just before he could touch he felt his hands being wrenched to his sides, then his whole body being clutched. He writhed, struggled against it- and his mind idly supplied the twinge of pain as sharp nails dug into him. Something was being said, something he couldn’t register, maybe it was in a foreign language or maybe he didn’t want to listen. The voice growled at him, then, as he tried to kick out he felt himself being lifted. Pulled up into a firm grip, an embrace. Jonathan hissed in pain. The voice dropped down to a lull, emanating from just behind his neck. If he focused, and he was trying to, now that the smell of blood was starting to fade, he could even feel the faint sensation of those lips against his neck. He counted his breaths, squeezing his eyes shut as he was carried, plucked from the floor like a overripe fruit. Not once did Dracula stop talking, but yes he realised, it was in some foreign language. Murmurings he didn’t understand, yet began to dull the thrum in his veins. Some part of him wanted to feel shame. It was beastly, what he was. Yet in doing that, he had defied Dracula again, and wasn’t that what he wanted? Wasn’t that why he was alive at all?

Jonathan slumped against him, mind churning. Despite the harsh lines, he wasn’t too uncomfortable to lean against. Somehow, his head fell into rest on his shoulder, as he was carried without a single jolt of a footstep. He seemed immaculately careful, kneeling as he laid him down. He felt warm, although that was just the heat of the fire, Jonathan noticed as he blinked an eye open. The carpet beneath him was plush, better than the hard stone for certain. It almost reminded him of the sunlight, watching the sparks of light reflect off his skin. Something familiar in that fire, those coals.

He hadn’t detected until a few minutes had passed that Dracula had left him. He had laid him so delicately, that without watching his touch was too gentle to know when it was gone. 

The doorway was empty. The maze of corridors seemed too dark, too harsh, compared to the amber glow surrounding the room. He gazed around it. It seemed bare, yet bore markings of life. Things recently misplaced, where the dust hadn’t settled. Some paper, a pen, resting on the top of a desk. Jonathan hugged his arms around himself, feeling just how deep his ribs were. The fire was so wonderful. The flames curling and coiling like golden hair. The coals crackled like laughter. Drawn to them, he shuffled forward. It reminded him of someone. He began to smile, feeling the warmth on his cheeks. There again, in the fireplace- something he remembered. Dark, liquid heat, like coals that burnt from the inside out. Vessels of fire entwined throughout it. His eyes.

He blinked, shaking his head as the fire spat ash up. He looked away, trying to clear his vision. A shadow draped itself over the room, over his body. The doorway was   
no longer empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayy the schedule!  
> I've updated my profile description to match my current predicament, if you wanna take a peek at that.  
> Otherwise, comment if you just want to say hi, have any ideas or things you'd like to see or just want to yell about my day.  
> Little reminder of my tumblr: commonsenseispaineful  
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Sacrament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honey don't feed me, or I might come back  
> ~  
> It's a strange dance, but like all waltz's, it dances to its inevitable conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Oscar Wilde quote about love being a sacrament best taken kneeling? Wild. I know it's really about the undeserving nature of love, but still... it fits ;)  
> Read end notes for a question about the future of this fic.  
> Enjoy,

“I know what you are going to say! Don’t- don’t waste your breath.” He sighed at his little outburst, worrying at his hands.

Dracula just stood there in the doorway, still cloaked in shadow. He could imagine the smirk on his face, the glee at his precious pet- it made him want to lash out. He chose to glare into the fire instead.

He was near silent as he stepped over, just the swish his cape made in the still air. Jonathan hugged himself a little tighter, feeling his skin prickle at the weight of the Counts stare.

“You’re right, you know?” his words were barely a whisper, little more than the crackle of the fire. But Dracula was listening, he always was. The shadow stopped behind him, by the desk, and he shivered.

“You’ve changed me. I’m no longer the Jonathan Harker that entered this vault, am I?” His face felt red and sore, his cheeks burning. The shadow was as still as a gravestone.

The fire was the only source of light in the room. All shadows shattered off the walls and floor, harsh lines like broken glass. The fireplace bore most signs of age, its iron clad cage mottled with ash.

“It’s your mistake-“ he continued, feeling bolder. He pattered his fingers against his palms, trying to alleviate the fervent itch of his fingernails. 

“-Because you have no control over me anymore, no fear, nothing!” He spat the last word out, nodding his head to himself. The shadows watched like a mute audience, hanging off his every word.

“I may flinch from you, but I know you will not kill me. So I am not afraid.” The light stung his eyes, and he rubbed them, only to find his fingertips returned wet. 

“I won’t take a step further, I won’t-“ he sniffed, and lazy drops of tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to scream, to cry, to run; but all these things somehow felt like a white flag. He didn’t want to be beastly. He didn’t want to be a pet. He steeled his voice from the choked sobs he could feel clawing up his throat.

“You have no say in this, it’s my decision. There’s nothing you could say to convince me-“

And a hand fell to rest on his shoulder, and he turned his head violently to face whatever glare or growl he was going to get. Instead, he was met with eyes that burned more than fire.

_“Please.”_

Dracula was kneeling by his side, looking Jonathan directly in the eyes, rather than luring over him. His face was set, yet his expression seemed to flinch at Jonathan’s hard stare.

“Pardon?” he said, back to a whisper. He looked the man over. He had lost his cape, draped instead over the chair. On the floor was a cup, scarlet and full.

“I said please, Johnny. You need to feed, or else you will end up like the others.”

The thought, that Dracula’s offer to him on the battlements was the closest he could get to pleading, broke apart in an instant. Shattered by the way he seemed to look at Jonathan like he was something precious, even his touch was barely there. 

“You’re lying. You said they were that way because they only wanted to live, that I was different. Why should I trust you?” he wanted to look away, but no raging fire lapping at his feet could have made him tear himself from those eyes. He hadn’t moved, not even an inch, yet Jonathan still verbally poised himself from the quip that didn’t come.

Dracula shook his head, then, with more than subtilty, glanced down as if looking through the miles of earth and stone to some deep, dark cellar. His words came a little quieter now, but there were all Jonathan heard.

“Not them. The ones in the boxes.”

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Even the intoxicating smell of the blood seemed to dull, making Jonathan shiver. 

_“Oh.”_ That thought, that singular thought was terrifying.

He paused, catching sight of his bloody fingertips. The nails were beginning to grow back, little nubs of hardened tissue. Would they grow back different; sharp and delicately jagged like his. He slumped a little inwardly, looking at the ash tray.

“Who is it?”

Dracula leaned over, pulling the cup into his view. The liquid was almost like silk, so red, he could see the flickering reflections of the fire dancing on its surface.

“A shepherd from the next village over. Lingered too far from his flock I’m afraid-“ he ran his finger over the tip of the glass, “if it makes you feel any better, he wasn’t very good.”

Jonathan suppressed a quiver of a laugh, feeling as Dracula’s hand slipped from his shoulder to his back, trawling down his skin.

“I thought you only dined on the best? Pantry running low?” he joked, distracted. His eyes still stung, and he winced in pain as he bit too hard on his own lip, worrying it.

“I do, Jonathan. I always have.” Dracula seemed to be examining him so intensely, yet it was not the burning gaze he flinched at. Jonathan noticed, idly, that the top button of his shirt was undone.

“He was the most educated in his family, was going on to Germany before his father’s death. Pity, wasted potential. It’s so common here you can taste it on the air.” 

And almost as if to emphasise the point, dipped his middle finger into the cup. Rivulets of blood dripped from his fingertip, caught in a moment in his mouth, and made his lips look unnaturally red. Jonathan was quite unaware that he was looking so intently, not watching as Dracula’s eyes seemed to smile.

This knowledge, it almost made it worse. Knowing that it had once flowed in a man’s veins, beat with his heart, throbbed in his emotions. For once he could believe Dracula, but a thought still lingered, scratching at his ribcage. How would he know the next time? How could he know these people, being so far removed from the bloody source that this cup could have been anyone’s. It could be Mina’s. Dulling the floors with her blood, flooding the stone. 

“I- I won’t.” He trembled, feeling the Count’s hand steady him.

“You will.” His voice crawled under his skin, within his veins and cracked his bones.

“I can’t” and his head fell, feeling the tears start to return. The hand on his back started to stroke him, and in his shame, Jonathan sighed with relief.

“Here, let me-“ and Dracula moved closer, Jonathan’s head now resting against shoulder blade. There was no gentle thrum of a heartbeat, but the touch alone brought him memories of comfort. He brushed his cheek, sweeping away the salt, then plucked the cup up in his fingers. Jonathan breathed. Locking one arm around his side, he lifted it to his lips.

It was like a thousand matches lighting at once.

In his weariness, he hadn’t quite registered all that was happening to him, only the idle touches of the Count as he creeped closer. But now, as the cold metal parted his lips, and the heat of the fire prickled his skin, he was awake. Every sensation seemed magnified, the tiny scrape of nails against his back, the hum of his own chest rising and falling. It was milk and honey- gliding over his teeth and tongue like silk. It was rich, and sweet, and bitter and delicious. He couldn’t hide that. An entire little life story rolled on his tongue, all its fireworks and fat, sweetmeats and scraps. He gulped voraciously, pushing the cup up higher with his own hands now, knuckles white. If he could blush, he would be like peonies, eliciting a quiet moan as he drank. He swore he heard the Count inhale sharply, then chuckle, his other hand coming to rest just under his chin. Those cool fingers wrapped around his throat, gently mind, poised by his Adam’s apple. As he swallowed, he must have felt it under his hand, a fingernail resting just where his pulse would have been, once had been.

He sighed, sated, in relief, swiping his finger around the inside of the cup, catching the excess.

The fire felt more pleasing now. Before, it was like plunging into boiling water with frostbite- feeling his skin itched and tear as tiny icicles thawed. Now he was floating in warm water, lapping at his face and chest.

Jonathan had forgotten about Dracula’s presence until he caught his look in the corner of his eye as he wrapped his lips around his finger, tasting the last. He smiled at him, the expression quirking up to the corners of his eyes. Jonathan felt frozen, only to be thawed by a laugh and a pat on his back. He wanted to scowl, the fractals of loathing crystallising again in his heart.

“Thank you.” Dracula murmured, prying the cup from his hands. The ring of it cluttering, tossed against the floor echoed off the walls.

After a moment of pause, he exhaled, resting himself a little more surely against his chest. It would not do, a mannered part of himself mumbled, to make a fuss now. He scoffed at his own excuse, deciding instead to count the spitting fire. It really was quite effortless, with the cool yet unyieldingly gentle body beneath him, to fall into some sort of daze.

“You’re a lively one, aren’t you?” he chuckled, and Jonathan hummed at the rhythm of his voice. If he was a less dignified person, he might have even said that he purred.

It could have been hours, watching the embers. He yawned, large like a cat, and felt himself drift.

“Look at me, here-“ Dracula shifted, clasping his cheek and turning him to face him “-look Johnny.”

Eyes meeting, he seemed to be pleased, smiling as Jonathan blinked in sleepy confusion. His eyes really were dark, a glow like cinders.

“Johnny blue eyes _indeed._ ” And he laughed, laughed like crackling of coals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! this chapter! this, was singularly the most fun and challenging to write. Oh but I rather love their interactions, don't you? Something sorely missing in the show.  
> Hey I wanted to ask what you guys thoughts on the Demeter where. To me, it might be quite the setting for some drama, but on the other hand I do want to explore the castle and it's wretched woods a little more.  
> Plus some more characters will be coming soon! I've been doing a lot of plot work, so I'm looking forward to one particularly clever little nun.
> 
> Let me know what you think about this in the comments, or anything you want to see! Thanks for reading!


	8. Liminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What hath night to do with sleep?” Paradise Lost, John Milton  
> ~  
> or the one where the times are a'changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!  
> A short one this time. I want to upload regularly, but I'm a little behind on writing so I'm afraid I'm going to have to tease you.  
> Enjoy,

One begins to learn, in the shadows of shuddered daylight, that such things are never truly empty.

He was learning, slowly, with every inch he conquered over the castle- the intimate movements of Dracula. The shadows that seemed pale against the stone walls, then suddenly so full of darkness that he could never truly say that they were shadows at all. Silences hid patted footsteps, mangled breathing- so much that Jonathan had begun to wonder if any music had ever played here to drown out the noiselessness.

It had been a week.

Like the other frustratingly empty pages of his mind, he didn’t remember being taken back to bed after he had drunk his fill. It was like being drunk, a smooth intoxication of the senses, so that even the sharp points of Dracula’s fingernails felt like silk on his skin. With every cup, that dullness seemed to fade a little, a side effect of finally being nourished he guessed, distracting himself with a grimace as he gulped down that night’s drink. It was habit now. Finding a glass by his bedside once he had returned from his wanderings around the castle, at the first twist of sunset. Jonathan didn’t enjoy it, at least he told himself that, but feeding made him think clearly- made him remember. He could see the creases in the corner of her eyes when she smiled, the dimples in her cheek. What he had been working on currently, clenching his eyes tight in the darkness as he thought, was the soft murmurings of her voice. Her words, first thing in the morning, with the spiderwebs of sleep still clinging to it and her mussed hair- that helped him pass the nights.

His fingernails were almost regrown, shockingly. So quickly, that they barely even had time to itch in growing pains. It was a little blessing, as when he first ventured out again, he noticed the speckled trails of blood he had left behind on the walls, where the stone had scraped into his flesh. He was oblivious at the time, now they were like signposts. He still didn’t have the map.

He had fallen into a routine, a parody of his living life. Searching through the castle in the daylight: for his belongings, for his map, for anything. Feeding in the evening. Except now sleep didn’t come easily, or at all. Before exhaustion clung onto his bones like a petulant child, and laying his head down onto the feather sheets was all too easy. He didn’t sleep, didn’t stop him trying. He chose to lie there, clenched eyes and fists- dreaming on what he could remember. He woke up better now at least.

Despite the intimacy Dracula and he had shared, the man seemed to have fled into the shadows of the castle. On occasion, when his wanderings peeked into the first hours of the night, he could catch a figure in the hallways. A shadow lingering by his door, or lights flickering in the library. It seemed odd, he puzzled, that Dracula gave him so much room. He had nightmares about the suffocating walls of his boxes, or the claustrophobia of a crate- but neither came. Was he experimenting with him? He half expected at any moment a whisper from the dark corner of his room, or the light trace of his fingers on his shoulder, almost muscle memory by now. Why the light touch when Jonathan was so important to him?

It made him want to push the boundaries, to tug the tiger’s tail until it rattled at the cage.

~

Jonathan was watching the sun slip below the mountaintops when the idea came to him.

His hands shook as he put down the cup (empty), quickly moving over to the wardrobe to pull on his shoes. Things that had appeared one night: some of his clothes- shirts and waistcoats, under-things and trousers- no coat he noted, however. They were not wrinkled, unlike how he had left them the last few nights where in bare exhaustion he could only throw off his jacket before crumpling into sleep. He tugged the cuffs into place, abruptly missing the silver cufflinks he had unwrapped one birthday gone by, silver shining with kisses as he had delighted in the giver of them. There were no mirrors here, that was a strict rule- yet he could find one if he looked hard enough. Count Dracula couldn’t outlaw the light, or mock the glass for the reflections it cast. In the last winks of daylight, in the window, Jonathan looked at himself. Barely there, both in his reflection and body, but not inhuman. Not withered, or drained. His hair was still sparse, but, as he ran a hand over it, growing. He straightened his collar, fingertips brushing against the silver scars on his neck.

He smiled.

He was careful not to walk too quickly. To race down the staircase would be like screaming, or flinging himself from a window- and it would give it all away. He had to give in to what he was- a lawyer. He had to negotiate.

Jonathan’s mind churned over the possibilities, most of all where the Count might be. It would not be difficult to find him in the great hall, or attract his attention to the dining room- yet that seemed too… impersonal. It was the battlegrounds of the months before, littered with the corpses of his failed escapes. To return there would be to try and make things how they once were- impossible in so many ways. 

Instead he followed the damp stone walls, watching for the faint flickerings of light under doorways. He had some grasp, he thought, of his section of the castle. It was still a maze, but he knew this dead-end: his chamber, a couple of sparse rooms, and the study. He paused on one of the great staircases, eyes caught on the candlelight that came from a great stone archway. He walked quieter than snow. Light trickled from the chamber, dripping from the brassy candelabras that hung from the high walls of the great library. The ceiling was like looking into a bottomless lake- infinitely black and infinitely deep, despite his brain supplying that it couldn’t be. Between the terrific pillars of black marble there were rows and rows of books, as far as the eye could see. Only the presence of dust could be any marking of time- there were no clocks here, and the occasional wind-wearied spiderweb at the very tops of the shelves. There stood a good few writing desks, littered with paper and other things, yet it was the one that sat in the centre of the hall, lit by a singular candle, that was darker than the others.

He steeled his breath. Worrying his fingers against his cuffs, like he used to do before important meetings. The word important seemed to lose some of its lustre now- vital, was more like it.

The wood-laid floor was thoughtfully quiet as he went in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say, the research for this fic leads me through some delightfully gothic and picturesque aesthetics. I love a good library.  
> Thank you for all your feedback, it has been very informative in how the story will shape from now on. Expect a little longer in the castle, there is too much to explore! And maybe a quick roundtrip to Budapest while we're at it ;)  
> Here's a quick question for ya, got any good names for the brides? I'm terrible at it, certain I'll butcher the spelling or pronunciation- let alone coming up with one.  
> Yell at me in the comments, and thank you so far for your support- it's really kept this fic going.  
> Thank you x


	9. Ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One should always play fairly when one has the winning cards.” Oscar Wilde  
> ~  
> A direct continuation, and a game is played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening/whatever time it is. Thank you for your continued support of this fic, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's very wordy, but in a way, it's what we've been dying for.
> 
> Enjoy,

“Johnny?” Dracula looked up from his desk, a little in surprise, but his face betrayed a greater sense of delight, “What are you doing up so late?”

“So early for you-“ he answered, eyes cast up to the jewellery box of hardbacks. “Good evening.”

He could feel Dracula’s gaze on him, rippling over his skin like hot water. He took a measured breath, trying not to squirm. Instead, he stopped by one of the tables, hand resting against it idly. It was lined with brass buttons, pinning in a cover of leather-like material to write upon. Like most of the things in this castle, it was long dead.

“I wanted to speak with you.” He declared to the wall, the back of his neck burning.

“I thought you’d lost your tongue. Go on then, what do you want to say?” Jonathan heard the creak of the chair, as if Dracula was leaning back, languidly stretching out in his glee at conversation.

“I don’t intend to just talk at you, I just want-“ and he inhaled, tapping his new nails on the surface, “I want to talk with you.”

He turned around, finding his face part amused and part sincere- like watching a beloved pet perform a trick for scraps. Again, that something in his eyes that howled of fascination, and he cocked his head at Jonathan’s own nervous stance.

“I see.” He leaned forward again, the legs of the chair bouncing off the floor as it righted itself. “Come. Sit.” And he gestured to the empty space.

Jonathan pulled the chair over, placing it in front of the desk, in front of Dracula’s own. There was something so intimately used about this space. The notches in the wood from where pen-nib or nail had marked it. The ink stain darkening the mahogany. The phantom imprints left behind by the paper.

He struggled to make himself comfortable, suddenly feeling too small for his clothes, too big for the chair. Clenching his teeth, Jonathan remembered what he had to do.

“I want… to know where I stand with you, Count Dracula.” The name seemed to loathe on his lips like lead.

“You know what you are Johnny, I’ll spare you that.” Dracula leaned forward a little, his hands resting on the edges of the table, nails drumming against it. “You’re my bride.”

He did not wince. He did not shudder. Dracula preened.

“What is it that you ask of me?”

As Dracula chewed his question, Jonathan had the distinct feeling of being in a game of chess. Or rather, more keenly, cards. His own hand ragged and sparse, clutched close to his chest while his partner dripped with aces. The cards had been swept off the table, now it was time to lay his out again.

“I want you, Jonathan.” And the sound of his name did make him shiver. He expected some lurid comment, winking glance, but instead the Count sat, staring into his own eyes resolutely.

The breathing at this point was almost entirely for his own nerves, but he needed it. He laid out his hand.

“You haven’t told me anything at all. Not really. I’d like that of you.” He nodded, watching as Dracula seemed to puzzle out his conditions.

“To explain what you are?” he asked, tone almost mocking.

Jonathan shook his head, not looking away this time.

“To explain what you are.”

Dracula smiled, chuckling to himself as he looked down. There was something underneath the way his mouth upturned so easily, so naturally, but Jonathan hardly had the time to ponder it. His hands were dancing along the table-top, strong and light. Tiny golden cufflinks joined at his wrist, with a black pearl in the centre of them, waltzing shimmers of candlelight.

“I admit, I haven’t really had the time to think about my biography before, but for you Johnny… I could make an exception.” He quirked an aristocratic eyebrow, teeth bared just under his full lips in a smile. He laid down an ace.

“What for?” he narrowed his eyes, biting his lip. He was keenly onto this game.

“Quick little one you are. I already said, I want you. I want you with me.” and he withdrew his hands, instead folding them, rapping a knuckle against his arm. He looked into his eyes inexorably, and Jonathan couldn’t quite tell if it was the reflection of the candlelight that made them look so burning.

“I will dine with you, if that satisfies you.” He gave in a little. Making sacrifices, all for the bigger picture he thought to himself, shivering as the monster grinned.

“ _Plenty._ ”

Not finished, he leaned forward. Wishing for the familiar safety of his briefcase, the weight of his pen on his fingertips to ground him. Like weapons of battle, they seemed to guard his heart. Here, he negotiated with it.

“I want to know the confines of this place. I want you to show me.” he glanced around the room and its bottomlessness, hardening his gaze. Dracula began to chuckle, then leaned forward sharply to whisper and grasp at Jonathan’s hand.

“No, not so you can throw yourself off my walls again darling.” And his words slipped off the tongue like cream.

Dracula looked so immaculate up close, not a hair out of place. More like a sculpture than a man, but he wasn’t really a man in the first place was he? He bit his lip, refusing to yield to the nails that ever-so gently scratched at his pulse point, or the teeth that glinted to his jugular. 

“Not there then, just the interior. I want to know the limits of my-“

“Home.” Dracula asserted. His hand just brushing against his own. 

“Prison.” He retorted.

“Same difference.”

He huffed out a half-meant laugh, sighing as he was released. Dracula’s eyes never seemed to quite leave him though, flitting from his own, to the little white marks left behind on his wrist by his crooked nails. Jonathan flexed- watching as Dracula tilted his head in fascination, mouth agape- then he tugged up his shirt cuffs harshly. Dracula looked back up him, glaring.

“One final thing.”

Jonathan placed his palms on the table, watching Dracula watching him. He could scatter no more cards, shuffle no more decks. He unfolded his hand.  
Dracula watched him with intrigue as Jonathan steadied himself, quirking his head as the man took a sharp intake of breath.

“When are we travelling to England?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I love their dynamic.  
> So. Been doing a bit of writing, y'know as I should, and apart from the next chapter being rather fun I wanted to know what you guys thoughts were on Agatha and Mina. I felt their relationship and possible vampire hunting dynamic was a little (a lottle) unexplored. I really want to flesh out her character more from Jonathan Harker's fiancé who loves him very much. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this one. I'm going to be uploading maybe every other day just so I can get ahead of schedule again. 
> 
> Please yell, scream or otherwise complain to me in the comments- I love hearing what you have to say.  
> Again tumblr, same name as here, start up a convo with me, I don't bite!  
> x


	10. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Hell is empty / And all the devils are here!' The Tempest, by William Shakespeare.  
> ~  
> Company company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again,  
> Trigger warnings for intense depictions of death/gore in this chapter, especially in the final paragraphs. These bits can be skipped, but please be wary of the tags for this chapter.
> 
> Chat to me at the end!  
> Enjoy,

The nights were less for sleeping now.

Not for the lack of trying, he reminded himself, trailing his fingers along the smooth and cold stone. No, he had reconciled himself with that- the ever-present exhaustion that shackled him yet leant no sleep. Like a disease.

Still, there were ways to occupy the time.

The Count had been true to his word. The next night, and each after it, Jonathan startled out of a sleepless dream by a knock at his doorway. Often, he didn’t have the patience to wait for Jonathan to get up and open the door, instead rapping his knuckles against the doorframe instead, sauntering in. He didn’t need an invitation here. He accompanied him to dinner, a word Jonathan used purely for avoiding the retching realisation of feeding like he now did. It was strangely… civilised? If that could be meant, Dracula had retained much of the manners of a gentleman, if the methods of a beast. They dined often in the dining room, seldom in the library unless Dracula wanted to illuminate to him some volume. Lately, he seemed to be testing him in a way, pulling out dusty leather covers to Jonathan’s own foggy eyes- he could read none of it. Once, upon struggling like numb fingers doing up buttons, he had guessed a word, illustrated on mottled parchment. He could have lit Dracula’s cape on fire and that wouldn’t have deterred his grin- Jonathan was correct. Honestly, his footsteps echoed against the stairwell as he walked, how was he to know what storm meant in Romanian?

To his disappointment, the castle had not unveiled its secrets as he had hoped. Dracula had relinquished the map, pushing, almost tossing it across the table to him one night. Claiming it was a boring thing, so improperly constructed- yet its edges were barely frayed. It was a little push, a little pull- and he smiled to himself feeling the edges of the papers rustle under his waistcoat. Little winnings after all.

Today, however, today he would dare.

The steps were of some familiarity- curling, caving in staircases that seemed to get smaller as one walked up them. He didn’t even know how he had got there in the first place, the turns of the castle so intricate he once had walked in a circle for a full day without rounding a corner. Part of him told him it made no sense, no logical sense, but those constraints of reality seemed to be locked out of this prison. Like the rest of human sensibility.

He would dare today because he could. Or at least, believed so. Dracula had let him explore undisturbed for several days now, and likely did not lay awake in that tomb listening to him pace the hallways. More honestly, and he felt his heart swell a little at thinking it, he dared because he wanted to. Because he was a prisoner here, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn everything he could about this wretched cell, and his keeper. And, as he pushed open the iron bar door, there were others who had been learning a lot longer than he had.

He held his hand to his chest, to steady the map that rustled inside and his own heart, as the familiar creak of the uncertain floor cracked the silence. The sunlight streamed through paper-thin cracks in the boarded-up windows and crumbling ceiling- making the whole room look like it was a cage. Dust floated in the air, blinking into the light before vanishing into the slatted shadows. The air still with creatures that no longer needed to breathe. Jonathan held the wooden railing for security, feeling the tremor that came with the scent of fresh blood. Not so new fresh blood, spattered on the floor- his own.

The three boxes stood there as imposing as gravestones- one vacant. He averted his eyes as he walked past it, not wanting to remember that dark and choking interior. The darkness that haunted him when he tried to sleep- turning to hysteria at the thought of being nailed in. There was a dark, almost purple stain on the floor- rancid from weeks of decay. The colour was spread to the staircase- like it had been dragged- and was no more. The girl was gone, then.

Jonathan held his tremors, clenching his fists as he rose one- with a slight shudder- to the box door. It was sturdy, bound by many locks and wooden planks. There were scratches on the doorframe- dragging inwards.

He held his breath. He had to know.

He rapped, lightly, and the tapping echoed across the chamber’s walls.

That, and nothing more.

How long had it been, since they had been alive? These brides, these creatures, Dracula’s favourites were kept in hardly better conditions than the corpses. Was it a mere whim, of Dracula’s to experiment in the will of the undead? To watch them pick flies from the air until they hissed like the buzzing of wings?

He paused, still no reply. He didn’t know what he expected. Not true, he did. He expected a creature, that creature, to tear him to pieces. He blinked back the memory, banishing the conniving eyes, the desperate hands and god, the teeth, to his dreams.

Faintly, softly, something knocked back.

He startled, pressing his ear to the wood to see if he had really heard it. The tapping continued; a slow, low rap against the trapdoor. The wood was sturdy- no cracks he could peer through, but, but if he could hear this, then maybe they could hear him.

He knocked a little louder, walking along with the rhythm to the furthest wall of the box. There, protruding from an opening, a bulbous glass ball used to feed. Like a giant image of his old school’s chemistry equipment- some boiling flask mottled with dark splatters and fingerprints. He tapped on the glass, like a curious child, hoping, praying.

An emaciated, nail-less finger uncurled from the darkness, tapping against the glass.

It was easier now to ignore the stench of decay. There was no purpose in it, no life- so at first glance he didn’t realise the corpse-like skin, only that there was someone there.

Jonathan pressed his palm to the glass’s surface, squinting in hopes of seeing a little more into the dark recess. The hand stretched out, a parody of his own, and it’s fingers twitched in effort to touch. There was an inch separating them- the glass too deep for the hand to touch it properly, but surely, surely that was enough? This bride, this thing had recognised him! He smiled, a little in elation at some other creature than himself consciously imprisoned here. The glass was very cold, but he didn’t dare move his hand. His heart was thumping in his chest, a facsimile of real excitement, and he dared. He dared, although his tongue felt like lead, staring into that darkness:

“H-Hello?”

The darkness growled, a low, pitiful thing, like the very planks themselves when the tree was felled. It groaned, and the hand crawled back, shuffling into where he could not quite make out. He gasped, clutching and leaving little finger-marks on the glass, almost begging for it to stay. He tapped again, hoping for anything. The shadow inside shifted, and then, like an animal that could mimic human speech with intakes of breath, spoke:

“You…are.”

Despite his hopefulness, the words make his jaw seize in terror. It wasn’t like a person, didn’t speak like a person. It was like one of those circus animals they taught to speak- a cat that could howl out words. It had no rhythm, no cadence that made sense. It wheezed like bellows, and continued:

“You are…friend.”

He could make a little more out now, clasping his hands around his eyes to block out the sunlight. It was a girl, a woman once around thirty, although she had been like this for much longer. Her hair was long, though very sparse- pulled back into knots like it had been tied there. Her skin pulled taut over her flesh, the veins underneath blue and bulging. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that she was missing most of her teeth, gnarled and sharp so much that she couldn’t close her mouth properly. She was trying to speak, her mouth jabbering, shivering, opening and shutting like she was drowning. 

“Yes-“ he nodded, gulping back the horror, “-I’m a friend!”

Her chest shuddered, and rose with a crack. She lay like a broken doll, her arms discarded in her lap, hand clutching onto something. That hand was bruised, or at least looked like it, although as he peered, he noticed it was more like a crusted black stain, speckled up to her elbows.

“You are a friend of the Count.” She whispered, shuffling back against the wall.

“No, no, I’m not-“ but she groaned, louder than he could have thought possible, so much that his breath seized.

“I’m hungry. Tell him, I’m hungry!” she yelled, more like a doll screaming, a voice that wasn’t a voice. She threw the offending thing from her lap at him, landing wet and heavy on the floor, and Jonathan startled back. He almost toppled over, losing his balance from where he had knelt to look inside. His footfall was deafening on the stone, and he feared he might startle another. He couldn’t stop his face from showing the horror know, trembling cheeks, as he peered back into the box.

It really was easier now to ignore the dead things. The withered, leathery bones of the bat, still clinging to the cage handles. The strewn, blooded stumps of feathery bird wings, tossed aside to the glass bowl. For such a long moment, Jonathan couldn’t even see the arm outstretched, cold and pale on the wooden floor. The arm that was bitten down to the bone, the hand that was far smaller than his own, the fingertips that would have barely reached his palm- so small and so young.

_Oh_ , but how he noticed it now. 

Jonathan uttered a cry, stumbling to his feet, feeling the thrum of the woman’s pounding against the glass. The hand that scratched without nails, only leaving behind little red streaks. That pounding followed him the whole way, the thump of his feet soon the only thing as he fled. Like the pounding of waves in a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo this was a fun one.  
> I like the spirit of it, even if I went into quite the storm of the ending of it. Can't make castle Dracula too cozy of a place can I?  
> So I've been having some minor(major) plotting issues, although it's probably just writer's block. I've figured most of the next five or so chapters, but the future of the convent or the Demeter eludes me in ways beyond frustrating. Maybe I'll just have to rewatch the series again. Not much of a punishment.  
> Love you guys and your comments. I especially value the thought you put into feedback, and what you comment on does help me guide my writing.  
> Thanks again for reading.  
> x


	11. Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I feel   
> The bond of nature draw me to my own,   
> My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;   
> Our state cannot be severed, we are one,   
> One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.' Paradise Lost, John Milton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an intermediary, I do hope you enjoy!

Hot.

It was so very hot, and he could hardly breathe. His hands clutched at the bedcovers, kicking his feet in an attempt to cool himself. His legs only twitched, like he was paralysed in a dream. His breath came quick and hard, panting in his throat. On the edge of waking, but aware, he groaned, feeling like another night was coming to a ruin with an inexplicable fever. His body felt like it was frozen, sluggish- like mid-winter flowers struggling under the weight of frost to bloom. The air was humid, and thick, and felt little respite in the sweat on his skin. He hadn’t grown used to the grave-like air of the castle, and wondered how the Count could sleep in such doldrums.

Jonathan tried to sit up, to shake himself out of this terrible wakefulness. His muscles clenched, and then, like a dream, a sudden coldness began to spread across his chest. It was like a caress, laying flat on his breast, pushing him back down onto his back- into submission. Some midnight breeze, he supplemented, sighing as the fever began to dissipate along his neck and face. For a moment, it was like being sick, having someone brush the sweat and unkempt hair from your brow. Such an irresistible sensation, and he groaned again, for a very different reason, as the wave swept over his forehead.

He started to still. Feeling his body pulling down into the dark fabric of sleep, falling through layers of silk and cotton until his mind was all frayed. The pressure on his chest was more pleasant, the cold bite of air against his neck a relief. Without consciously deciding to, he tossed his head to the side, exposing himself further to the breeze. It was almost like being willed, being coaxed by gentle hands and a gentler mouth into obeying.

That, that was a thought.

He had dreamed of Mina. How in a few weeks he’d be reunited with her. He wanted to dream- yet as he fell he couldn’t quite conjure her face. Her remembered her like when one finds a stray hair not their own- clinging to his clothing. No, tonight, Mina was a haze in a storm. His blood not tempered for dreams so carnal, rather he saw her above him like a sweet awakening. The first sleep after he’d proposed, and that made him smile until his cheeks ached. He’d drifted off in her arms, resting his head on her shoulder in the little nook in the woods he’d chosen. A small, almost forgotten place. A path only remembered by children, or the elderly women who would sit and hum at park benches, their legs too weak to dance along it again. His heart had felt so light, that it could be a tempest as the sun would beam from him, from her. He had been roused from sleep by the press of lips to his cheeks, eyes and nose. With his beloved lady, no, _fiancée_ kneeling above him.

That was something to dream to.

He hummed, tossing to his side only to be pushed back, held there firmly by the covers. Mina had been so beautiful, the press of her lips so soft. He didn’t remember the scratch of the holly leaves into his neck, as Mina leant over him laughing, but one never does remember the pain in such sunlight. It must have been there, for he felt it now, like a persistent itch. Something he could tease her about when he got home, another promise to his heart. And her eyes, those were the most special of all. Even in sleepiness, they sparkled.

Those eyes that had looked down at him with such adoration that day.

Those burning, dark eyes.

~

Dear Miss Murray,

I do not wish to waste ink, so I will tell you plainly.

I have thought on what you have written, and with a little investigation of my own I believe you have the greatest of reasons to travel to Budapest, to me. Despite my profession, I do not wish to spark unlikely hope within you, yet I have to believe, I do believe, that your fiancé- Mr Jonathan Harker- is not lost. I have the strongest faith that despite his letters, that Mr Harker is still within his employer’s grasp- within the Castle. The question whether he is living or not, is impossible to guess, but Miss Murray, I urge you to come.

I must be truthful with you, and I can only do so with sound heart to your face. It concerns my interest in finding your fiancé, and the immediate danger I believe he is in. I have not been honest in my intentions, nor in the knowledge I have acquired in finding him. This world is not as you expect it to be, and the shadows of it that we must conquer are infinitely darker than the stories make out. It makes me smile to think that my renown for these affairs has reached so far off as England, but that same thought is chilling, is it not? I have so much to tell you, and I am praying for him.

The winter’s here are harsh and bitter, come quickly,

Sister Agatha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !  
> !! aa I couldn't resist a moment longer. You know that Dracula is written the way it is because of how Mina collated all the letters and diary entries, I find that so wonderfully interesting to insert the story into the real world.  
> A short one, lots of writing to do, too little time. Finally made the skeleton for this story that I'm happy with, so that's a weight off my chest.  
> How's everyone's evenings/mornings/time you're reading this? Are you procrastinating? Distract me with your own lovely worlds.  
> Thank you for the kudos and comments x


	12. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;  
> And in the lowest deep a lower deep,  
> Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide,  
> To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven" Paradise Lost, John Milton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good whatever time,  
> Been away a little bit with a frightful cold, but I'm back to serve you some piping hot fic.  
> Enjoy x

“You look distracted Johnny.”

The voice came from the shadows, despite the candle that gleamed from the table-top, burning, burning bright. He shook his head, thoughts hazy. He had been remembering… something. Some dream he’d had, and he only noticed when he felt the solid surface of the dining table that he’d actually been reaching out to the figure in it.

“Sorry, sorry I’m just…” and he trailed off, not quite sure what to say. What was this? This gnawing, empty feeling- the itch underneath his teeth.

“Famished. You look hungry.” The voice finished him.

Jonathan yawned, blinking into the candlelight. The great dining table seemed to stretch for miles, only that he and the Count occupied the seats at the very end closest to the fireplace. The air seemed even thicker- like smoke, and he wanted to cough except that he found with every tickle in his chest that he didn’t need to breathe.

Dracula must have been just sitting in the chair next to him, for he was leant over by his side- face etched with concern. His brow formed a tight line, like he was watching for some sign in him. A sharp tipped finger dragged lazily around the rim of the cup in front of him- dancing on its emptiness.

“Yes. I think I am. How- how did I get here?” and he turned in his seat, the walls rebuilding themselves out of the fog of memory. Where old battles lost, and blood spilt, and he winced a little at the familiar ink stains on his place.

“You wandered here yourself darling, I suppose-“ and his hand came to rest on his cheek, running his sharp nails along the bone, “you came to me.”

He no longer needed to breathe, but still had that inexorable urge to sigh, and press his cheek into that cold embrace as before. The hand was firm, and clutched his cheek like a precious thing, like he could sleep there forever. He bit his lip instead, not watching as Dracula’s gaze flicked down to the points where his lip grew pink.

“We’re well into the night now, I suppose we could dine- if that’s what you want Jonathan?” his quirked his eyes, like embers being ignited to flame they sparked. He had used his name again, he was rubbing his thumb into his cheek, what- Jonathan racked his addled mind- did he want?

He struggled for a moment, half-distracted by the soothing pressure on his face: ‘Yes, I want that. I believe I am hungry.”

That last word almost spat. He still hated the thought, yet those arguments seemed to drown on his tongue when he tasted the scarlet liquid in his cup. Milk and honey. It was like a balm.

Dracula smiled at him sincerely, his eyes upturning with tiny lines, showing those sharp teeth that made the prey animal in his shriek.

“Good.”

He flittered away, faster than Jonathan could think, although he felt so, so tired. What was this? It was like drowning, except in the dry air. He had been feeding, every night Dracula made sure of it, the cup always present before he arrived. Why then, why now was he so drained?

His thoughts were interrupted for a moment by the scrape of something on the damp tile stones, like the drag of cloth against cloth. He strained himself to look, seeing the shadows flit just out of view. Somehow, it reminded him of the meals he was served, when he was still alive. The way Dracula would carry the gilded plates to his side, presenting the dripping red meat with a concealed flourish. He never touched it- only consumed Jonathan with his eyes as he picked his way through the most rare pieces. Thinking now, as the sound grew louder, it must have been the Count himself cooking it- he was right about there being no servants. Is that why he was proud, in the way Jonathan held his tongue and swallowed it down? Why his eyes glimmered when he wiped the red specked juices from his lips?

“I thought tonight Johnny-“ another dragging sound, and Dracula’s voice rose excitedly above it all, “we’d try something a little _different._ ”

He emerged from behind the doorway, pulling, dragging a body. Not just a body, with its arm limp and outstretched and clutched in Dracula’s grasp- a _live_ one.

He almost started at the heartbeat. Like a drum, it was so loud, deafeningly so that he wanted to clutch his ears. It was slow, sluggish, but there, and Jonathan froze in the sight of the mans confused expression. Barely over twenty, yet his face was world-worn. His eyes drifted sluggishly along the ceiling, his mouth agape and muttering. He dangled, limp, like some cat’s quarry- as Dracula deposited him on the table.

“He’s- he’s alive!” Jonathan yelped, jumping back in his chair. The man lolled his head, lying flat like a drunkard, drooling.

“Yes, Johnny, he’s alive.” Dracula’s voice oozed condescension, like he was teaching a child.

“No, I won’t- this is too far!” he was half amazed at how quickly his senses had snapped to him, voice rising above the heartbeat.

“Is it? What do you think you’ve been drinking every night?”

Memories rose to his thoughts, unbidden. Rolling golden fields walled by white dusted peaks, the warmth of a hearth, a baby’s cry- all of these memories not his own. The thoughts that wailed at him while he tried to sleep, when he closed his eyes- the memories of their dreams embraced in his.

“This is better Jonathan, let me show you.” And Dracula was suddenly at his side, pulling him forward by the arm. He resisted, tugging back, crying out as razor sharp nails dug into his wrist.

“Let me show you Johnny, I can make it better-“ and Jonathan’s protest died as his hand met the man’s neck, fingertips paused on his pulse. He was so alive, throbbing under his touch, and Jonathan could almost feel his own veins thrum with this facsimile of life. It was intoxicating.

“It’s better like this. Those nightmares, I can make them go away.”

He tore his gaze from the man’s pulsing flesh, meeting Dracula’s own dark and bloody eyes. He smiled like a madman, all teeth, and Jonathan couldn’t help but tongue his own.

“You put memories to faces, those- those you can forget. You can keep so many that way.” And he knelt over, inhaling by the young man’s neck, wrapping his own fingers around Jonathan’s.

“I… I don’t know-“ he stuttered, finding it hard to speak between the beat of the man’s pulse and Dracula’s own rhythm. His mouth was watering, and his gums tingled.

“If you can? Believe me Johnny, you are the most capable man I’ve ever met.” And Dracula’s free hand reached around to clutch at his neck, pulling him close, closer, until his was flush to Dracula’s chest and the table.

His finger’s trembled, steadied by Dracula’s heavy grip, and he felt like he could have shook himself to pieces without him. Without him, he’d been starving, a husk curled within itself like a doll, in a crate.

He found himself panting, eyes staring into Dracula’s own, dark abyss. His eyes were red, and desperate, like a hungry wolf, and Jonathan bit his lip to steady himself.

“Show me.”

Dracula pulled him forward, his hand soft and caressing and insistent on his neck- towards the young man. The creature looked drugged, his pupils blown and unfocused, his limbs heavy. His fingers twitched uselessly against the polished wood. Dracula’s other hand began to pull at the ties of the man’s shirt, pushing down the fabric to expose the pink skin beneath. His own hand stilled as he felt the pulse quiver under his touch, revolting against the chill.

He was mere inches away from the man’s throat. A part of him was screaming, but all he was aware of was the insistent beat of the man’s heart, and some vague notice that the Count was whispering something to him. Nothings, foreign nothings into his ear. Words he couldn’t understand, yet guided him onwards. An elegant finger tipped the man’s chin upwards, pulling the flesh taut. He wanted to whimper. It was too much. His teeth began to hurt. It was too much.

“Good boy.” He heard whispered, and was pressed forward into the warm, pounding pulse.

The skin broke like the skin of a peach, ripe and heavy with its own juices. Soft, vaguely fuzzy, warmed in the sun. Hot, sticky liquid dripped down his chin, his lips, his hands, and he lapped it up. He felt the sun on his face, caressing his skin, gripping his neck- and his eyes fluttered as they were shut in the exquisite sensation of the drink. He drank without pausing for breath, in a daze, until the juices began to squeeze dry, only coming in spurting ebbs than flowing freely. The air was crisp, and cold, and his inhaled as much as he could until he choked. The sunlight began to fade, but not the burning, those burning eyes that dragged its gaze along the lines of the dripping blood on his face.

“Don’t… don’t waste it.” Dracula whispered, barely moving, just staring. Jonathan didn’t feel like flinching under him quite yet, swiping his palm against his chin and face, drawing back to look at the scarlet droplets accumulated there.

They sparkled a little in the candlelight. A persistent gleam as he tilted his hand. The hand on his neck twitched, flexing his fingers.

“Jonathan.” He growled, and he blinked out of his trance. Almost as quickly as he had snapped, Dracula sunk back into himself, clenching his teeth under firm line of lips. Jonathan stumbled for thought, then, almost absentmindedly, licked off the droplets from his hand like a happy child might do the sweet syrup left behind by a peach. Dracula’s attention snapped to, and Jonathan paused in his ministrations to savour.

It took a moment, but the sobering reality climbed into his heart. The man’s face was frozen in shock, eternal fear, petrified in the whites of his eyes. He began to panic, the tremble in his hands returning. Oh God, this was so much worse. He had a face, he had a name, he had-

Jonathan couldn’t quite place the man’s name, actually. Now that he thought, it was like a doorway in his mind, branded with a face that locked away everything in between.

“You see now, Johnny. You see why…” and Dracula entwined his fingers in his, leading his hand along the man’s throat and chest. His eyes were clear again, façade impossibly unbroken. He watched their hands dance along the buttons of the man’s coat.

“I do.” He whimpered.

Dracula laid his hand above the man’s pocket, patting it gently. What would happen to this man now? Dumped into the forest for wolves, or for bleached bones? What lake would wash ashore the remnants of this man? He clenched his hand unconsciously, feeling a lump of something in the man’s pockets.

“I see…” and as Jonathan looked up, Dracula’s face contained uncontrollable curiosity. The way he bit his tongue, his eyes gleaming, then looking up to meet Jonathan’s own.

They held there for a moment- black and blue.

Red or white.

He smiled, so wide that Jonathan got lost in it. Then tugged at his hand, pressing him to his side as the turned him away from their table and guest.

“Come now, don’t you want to show me what you’ve explored?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I've been a little under the weather lately, but do you know what picked me up to write again? Your comments- they make me smile and help tear down writers block. They mean a lot. Words- I'm not very good at them.  
> This chapter rather beautiful, and dare I might say we have some hidden feelings come to light. I'll warn you though, don't get too attached to anything or anyone in this ;)  
> How are you all?  
> Kudos comments or whatever, I'm just glad you've made it this far.
> 
> Love x  
> P.S- I'd highly recommend reading Paradise Lost for any of you that wonder why I keep quoting it. It's an utterly indecipherable text that I fell in love with once I could read the first word, and really makes you rethink the bad boy trope in good ol' Satan.


	13. Eve and Narcissus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You weren’t anything before Jonathan, but with me, you are more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, the excerpts from this chapter are from Paradise Lost, where Eve recounts seeing her reflection for the first time.  
> This chapter is set directly after the last BTW.
> 
> Thank you all you lovely people for supporting this fic, I hope you enjoy!

The sun had long since abandoned the shadow crumbled walls of the castle.

Built as a maze, to trap each and every beam- until even the most outer chambers were as dark and gloomy as the inner crypts.

There had been some flaws in construction- no build is perfect. The staircases that led to nowhere, the doors that opened to blanks walls- such a nightmare that seeped its way into the Winchester mansions on a dream. There was, unbeknownst to its inhabitants, a few windows unreachable. Long since boarded up, wood rotting, there lay embedded in the highest walls-tiny nooks to the outside world. Crevices in which the bats and flies would squeeze their wings through, flitting through the tepid air of the great library.

Even now, still high on blood and life and death, Jonathan swore he felt a breeze.

“This, this one here- Johnny?” the voice bit through his train of thought, snapping him out of scenting the pine on the air. He swayed, stumbling towards the man in a trance.

“Ah, come here, I want you to try this one.”

The Count extended a magnificent hand, and as Jonathan took it, he felt the raised flesh underneath where it had scarred. The burns, yes, how had he forgotten? His mind was slowly coming back to him like the turning of the tide unburying a shipwreck. Dracula was smiling, all teeth, but his eyes were fond and dark. He seemed busy in his head, and Jonathan quirked his mouth into a smile.

Dracula wasn’t paying attention.

He fingered some volume on the bookshelf. A heavy thing, with jet blue leather binding the worn pages, yellowed and fingered with dark marks. Like the blue beetles in the forests, his mind supplied, as Dracula flicked open the pages, his nails catching on the paper edge. He seemed tamed, proud, placing a possessive hand on Johnny’s neck. For what he’d done, he thought, for-

Oh god, it was a lovely and terrible thing.

He gulped, licking the taste of iron between his teeth. A thousand defences rose in his mind, but none held- falling apart like dandelions in the wind. He’d killed that man. Knowingly, even wanting his death. That was part of him now. His soul had little reconcilement to make- there weren’t any prayers for a sin like this.

“Yes-“ the Count hummed, tapping his finger against a passage, “this bit here. Can you read that for me?”

Jonathan peered at the pages, squinting. It looked… _different_. He wasn’t certain what it was- the way the ink scrawled in patterns so unfamiliar, and yet-  
“I thither went with unexperienced thought and laid me down on the green bank to look into the clear smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.” He spoke, glancing at the words. This was familiar at least, yet made him shiver a little, such a ray of light in an abysmal place.

“Go on.” A whisper in his ear.

“-As I bent down to look, just opposite a shape within the watery gleam appeared bending to look on me. I started back, it started back, but pleased I soon returned, pleased _it_ returned with answering looks of sympathy and love.”

He stopped, his words still ringing around him. Glancing up, Dracula had closed his eyes, locked in a peaceful smile. His hand gently tightened around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Don’t you see Johnny? I knew you could do it- I knew you were special.” He looked at him reverently, and Jonathan felt caught in a net like a feeble bird. His eyes were burning.

“After all this time, you were the one who found me. I-“ he seemed to sigh, bumping his head against his own, resting against him, “I invited in you in.”

There was nowhere to look but at Dracula. He could err on the side of thinking his expression was tender, open, as his mouth quirked like he was stifling some laugh. His eyes gleamed, his hair dark and shining impossibly blue in the candlelight. 

“You were looking for me?” he asked, feeling his own breath on his cheek.

Dracula’s face softened, then he pulled away, almost afraid that he would break him.

“Of course I was. My finest bride.”

His bride. The mortal stain upstairs where the woman had lain. Mina. Mina, who would be near sick from worrying about him, hearing no word. 

“Why, why can I read this?”

Jonathan indicated to the book, not catching the flicker of disappointment in the Count’s eyes. Dracula stepped forward, closing the cover slowly.

“Because of the blood Johnny. Blood is lives. Languages mean little when you consume all notion of them on a speaker’s blood. All tongues become the same on the tongue, so to speak.” And he smiled, proud of that pun Jonathan imagined.

Good. He had to keep him talking. Thinking clearly, he knew that when he played into the Count’s hand, that he let his guard down. He said too much, always had- even gloating over his once inevitable death he’d given him a vital clue. Maybe, just maybe, he could be persuaded in doing so again.

Pride goes before the fall.

“That’s why you wanted me to stay,” and he ran his hand over his neck, pausing for a second on the familiar scar.

“At first, yes,” and Dracula’s eyes lingered by Johnny’s hand, before quickly turning in a swish of cape to the fireplace, “but then for so much more.”

“More?” he wanted to laugh, but he saw that his eyes were far too deep for that. It had been a month, maybe more, but he was learning the small ticks of this man that betrayed some inner workings. The inner gears of his own machinery.

“I told you, you’re like me. And perhaps moreso now…” and he wrung his hands, unclasping the cape from his shoulders and draping it over the mantlepiece. His fingers dancing on the string of black beads that tied it.

Jonathan frowned, prowling behind him. A strange sense of possessiveness clutching at his heart. Dracula ran a hand through his hair, parting it softly like dark ripples.

“What do you mean?”

It was all too easy to become lost in him. Something he’d ignored as illness, as delirium. Then perhaps devilry- the voice that whispered in the dark was achingly similar to his most private dreams. Better to reign in hell after all.

“The blood Johnny.” He spoke quietly, his voice solemn. He gazed into the fireplace, leaning against the mantlepiece.

His blood revolted at that, turning. He wasn’t, not truly, and his conscience couldn’t stand it.

“I’m not-“

“No. No you’re not Johnathan.” And he turned to him, eyes searching him desperately. Those tinders of rebellion extinguished in a wave, as the Count marched forward almost to his very toes.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” and he clasped his hands in his own, warmed a little by the fire, “-but this, this is interesting.”

He held his hands like some small, injured creature. Delicately turning his palms upwards, running his thumb along the lines in his skin.

“Not even a trace…” he murmured, just under his breath, and Jonathan quivered under the touch so gentle. The caress, so achingly similar to those delicate hands that had held him, kissed his knuckles. He tamped out the flames hastily.

“So you agree? I don’t understand.” He frowned, furrowing his brow and strangling a gasp between his teeth.

“The cross, you were able to bear the presence of that man’s crucifix.” And he pulled back, but this time yanked Jonathan with him. He was rambling wildly, excitedly, hand still clutching his own.

“You don’t fear the cross, you can stand in, no, you even sleep in the sunlight! Johnny this changes everything!”

His eyes were sparkling, and Jonathan watched as he laughed, laughed in the face of it all. Without needing to, his chest rose and fell with the swell of breathing, of dancing. Jonathan was struck for a moment with just how blushed his face looked.

“You looked into the mirror and saw me Johnny! I saw you!” Pulling him close, so close that their chests were touching, like a perverse waltz. Jonathan wanted to squirm, feeling his cheeks heat up, but Dracula simply held him there.

“You weren’t anything before Jonathan, but with me, you are more.”

His breath fell short, gasping at Dracula’s open expression. His gaze that flicked between Jonathan’s own, and his lips. Jonathan’s hand grasped at the fabric of the Count’s waistcoat, nestled just above his hip. It was impossible, but yet a heartbeat was louder than the crackle of the fire beside them. Reflecting into those dark eyes, the light glimmering off his defined cheeks and resting on his mouth. His pulse was like a rabbit race, leaning in until their foreheads were almost touching. He wanted to cry out, or run. He wanted- he wanted-

“England. Why England?” he gasped.

Dracula seemed to freeze, then unwound his hand from Jonathan’s. His eyes still desperately dark.

“Why not?”

Jonathan exhaled, walking back until his knees hit the armchair. He sunk into it, hiding his shaking hands under himself.

“I- it doesn’t matter I suppose.” He nodded, watching as Dracula stepped back to the fireplace.

All was quiet for the moment, but the rasp of the dying fire, spitting at his feet. He felt woozy, like the heat in his blood had fled him all at once. The blood losing its lustre, maybe? And he rested his head on his hand, leaning into the chair. Surrounding by a thousand gleaming pearls, he felt tired.

“If it matters-“ Dracula began, softly, “I wish to leave in a week.”

He dared not dream, yet his heart froze in that blissful hope anyway. _Home_ , his home. Not the soil he’d been reborn in. Lush and earthy, rolling and green.

He flicked his eyes up, his watery blue eyes meeting dark. Waving a white flag.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone ask for tenderness?! Did someone ask for an almost kiss?!  
> O I've been writing up a storm it's like my keyboard's getting a back massage, how are you all doing? What do you think of Jonathan and Dracula- will they won't they? Am I just a little overexcited at this chapter, and all its foretelling of the future- maybe.  
> I hope you wonderful people are enjoying so far, it's a pleasure to write and to have an audience that is so nice in talking back. If you have any thoughts about my style, story or just want to yell inarticulate noises at me, I'd love a comment. Thank you again for reading, and I'll see you soon.  
> x


	14. Pandora's Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'What matter where, if I be still the same,  
> And what I should be, all but less then he  
> Whom Thunder hath made greater?' Paradise Lost, John Milton  
> ~  
> and Hope fluttered it's tiny wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very enormous thank you to everyone who's kept reading, the sure joy your comments and kudos give me prompted me to upload this chapter a day earlier, because I thought you deserved a treat.  
> Enjoy!

A week.

The very limit on his existence here- once a curse, but now?

That was some hope.

Jonathan raced up the stairs, hardly bothered by the uneven stone beneath him. Purpose then, to learn, to learn as much as he could. If he had the advantage of surprise, because in Dracula’s eye he still was trapped, enfeebled, and very much under his spell, he could escape. It was a butterfly’s wings worth of hope holding onto anyway. He clutched it in his hand, his fingers tightly interlinked, like some small breeze would come and it would be lost forever. 

He should have felt dizzy, almost sprinting up to this parapet, but instead he hid his grin a little at pushing open the iron-bound door. Slowly, he noticed, he was losing the need to breathe. When he was reading in the study, absorbed in some novel in words he couldn’t understand, did he come to with a shock that his chest was stiff and still. He made a habit of it- counting the rise and fall of his breaths. If nothing but to waste through the nights.

Maybe he was a fool for thinking he was prepared, but he had come with something. A fidgeting, squeaking bag, and questions.

The room was somewhat duller than when he’d last seen it. The air held stagnant, barely even a fly’s wing disturbed its doldrums. In it, hung the scent of rot. From the wooden beams that had bared the brunt of storms for years, to the windows whose boards were so eaten through the light was almost dappled. That was without mention of the other signs of decay in this place. The stains. The scratches. No bodies seemed to last long, even the starved bat that hung like a mockery in its cage was gone. Just the remnants. Like spilt ink on a page.

The crates never seemed to change.

Always solid, imposing, a monolith. Only its contents, he thought as he noticed the scratch marks on the opening hinges, only the things inside.

He tapped a little on the glass, watching as the shadows recoiled. She couldn’t hurt him, not really, he thought like a mantra in his head. Not that stopped the hair-raising reaction to her dull and gaunt face peering back at him through the glass.

“Hello,” he whispered, steeling his voice.

She seemed confused, cocking her head at the squirming bag he carried. The piece of cloth squeaked pathetically in his grip. It was the most he could do, and the least.

As his fingers began to pry away at the latch on the glass, she eyed him like a hungry dog- all sallow and wide, pupils dark with his every move. The bag hit the glass with a thump, and the irritated rat crawled out of the drawstring- twitching it’s nose at its own reflection. There were so little living things in the castle- not even a spider. This creature, as it tapped its tiny pink paws on the glass, had been hours of searching, of waiting. It’s eyes were bright, and blue, and blinked up at him in confusion as a wiry hand coiled from out of the shadows.

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, only hearing the vile squeal and crunch of the shadows.

“Th-thank you.” The woman spoke, recoiling back into the box. She wiped a stain off her lips, licking at her fingers greedily. Jonathan winced, and smiled nervously.  
“How long have you been here?” he asked, kneeling down by the glass window. His shadow blocked out most of the light, allowing his eyes to adjust to her shrouded figure.

She seemed to digest that, pausing in her ritual. She tapped a bony finger against the wooden planks.

“Don’t know-“ another tap, and Jonathan could just make out a series of neat scratches in the wood that devolved into long harsh claw marks, “-long time.”

Once, maybe once she’d been alive in there. More than this. It was hard to tell if Dracula had ever cared for the brides, other than feeding them scraps. Her clothes looked ragged, just scraps of wool now by her feet where once dainty socks had been. Those scraps too, nothing like what he had been getting. Beasts, and the worst of them- the flies were an ever-present companion. A horrible image struck his mind, of his own fly bitten form after years of confinement, of feeding on these animals. Were they beasts now, or maybe had always been? He didn’t have any answers, only a sinking, writhing feeling of dread in his stomach.

“You are his friend.” She spoke, stretching out her fingers in some lost sense of satisfaction, looking over the clean yet sallow skin.

“Yes.” He said. It was true, it would do no good to lie now.

“Good.” She hummed, nodding her head absently. “Got more?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry.” He hastily added. One had been hard enough, his legs still ached from where he’d crouched, waiting for the creature to forget him and turn away. He’d found a scrap of meat, old food, but almost nothing wanted to touch it. All but a few creatures avoiding the threshold of the castle, giving wary glances from the treeline. Smart.

She frowned, marred only by her mangled teeth biting into her lip.

“What do you want?” she snarled.

“I wanted…” he paused, struggling with words, “to talk to you.”

She laughed, in a way that almost seemed like he was spitting out something, choking on air.

“Talk. I am not good to talk.” She leant against the box, then waved her hand dismissively, “the other one was better.”

It was hard understanding her, despite knowing the language now. She spoke with a heavy lisp, probably from her bitten lip, and her words were stuttered, like an animal. It was with some cruelty he drew this comparison, but she really did speak like a circus creature trained to articulate noises into words. If he couldn’t see her mouth move, he wouldn’t have known they were words at all.

“Other one?” he frowned, glancing to the other crates.

“Next to me. She talk. She could get out too, but she doesn’t talk anymore.”

Oh.

Biting his lip, he stubbornly refused to look at the darkening stain on the floor, and the box he knew now was empty. He inhaled slowly, waiting for some kind of response from her, some kind of hint that she knew, but she just blinked at him like a stunned animal. Slowly, he spoke:

“He- Dracula killed her.” The words felt uneasy in his mouth. Bad news always numbs the tongue- like chewing on thorns.

She sat for a while, in near silence, except for the slow tapping of her fingers against the wooden planks. Jonathan’s legs ached, so he reclined until he sat cross-legged, like a child sharing secrets in the dark.

Listening, actually listening in this room was different to the rest of the castle. It was like he could hear the hum of sunlight filtering through the boarded up windows- the lazy drift of dust in the air. Creatures long since dead, slowly turning.

“He’s given up on us.” Her voice slipped between the silence. He didn’t know what to say, wringing his hands in his lap- his own nails strong and shiny, whilst she scraped tiny flecks of blood against the wood.

“He used to… talk to us too.” She continued, with difficulty. She was squeezing her eyes shut, desperately remembering. Her hands pressed against her sockets so hard that Jonathan wanted to hold them, pull them back.

“All night, often, talking. I didn’t want to. The other one, she wanted out, so would listen.”

He could imagine it. Spending the hours before morning-light, up here, reclining against the boxes like a satisfied cat. He’d noticed the look the Count gave him when he told him each night he was going to his room- almost disappointed, disheartened even. For the lack of a good meal, of a conversation.

“What did he want?”

Her face screwed into a scowl, and if she had nails Jonathan was sure they would have long since drawn blood by now. Instead she pawed uselessly at her face, before snapping.

“Always wants. Everything.” She spit. “He took everything. He stopped a long time ago, he gave up on us.”

She was almost wailing at this point, and he felt just an inch of panic take hold. The castle was deep, but he wasn’t sure of the extent of Dracula’s awareness. He’d taken to treading lightly, even in the sunlight. Placing his hand on the glass, he lowered his voice even further to a whisper.

“He still feeds you?” he whispered. She growled, crawling forward until her face was a few inches away from the glass opening.

“Scraps. Nothings.”

In the light, he noticed for the first time how dark her eyes were. Bloodshot, and wide in their sockets like a corpse. Under all that though, they were beautifully brown.

“Doesn’t he care for you? You… being his bride.” He didn’t quite understand, that confusion jolting to fear as she spat out a huff, jabbing her bloody finger against the glass it could almost break.

“Wrong. All wrong. It never worked, never could work.” She squirmed, seemingly stuck on something, like it was in her teeth. He chewed on that idea, why the brides? Why, if from how she jabbed at her stomach meant what he dreaded, why didn’t he let them go?

And why, then, did he call him his bride too?

She sniffed, recovering, sitting more still in the quietness of Jonathan’s contemplation. Her eyes were really quite lovely. They probably sparkled golden in the sunlight, little rings of acorn shell brown. Seeing that in her, it was possible to see her for the person she once was.

“He only ever came… for her.” She murmured, so low that Jonathan almost thought he misheard.

“The one who could talk?”

“No, other box.” And she raised an arm to the direction of the third, most dust-settled crate. She chewed on her lip, eyes closed, before speaking: “Ileana.”

Jonathan peered around to look. It was the same as the others, yet, now that he noticed yes- it was less touched. The marks in the wood were older, so that the air had began to dull and darken them with age. The glass was blurry with fingerprints and dust, so much that light seemed to filter in like being deep underwater.

“Why?” he questioned wondering why he had heard so little from the crate that was not empty.

“To- to” she grasped her hands in frustration, scowling in a sympathetic smile, “test.”

He felt his heart drop, and he inched forward, “What was he doing?”

“We didn’t know. Jealous, she was getting blood- proper blood. Not these-“ and she tossed the rat aside, hitting the wall with a wet thud, “useless…”

He winced, watching the pathetic thing drip on the wooden surface.

“But it was all wrong. Not blood. Not really. It was her.” And her voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

“Her own blood?” To his dismay, he couldn’t stop his voice from lifting a few notes in anxiety, glad for once that this woman had such a poor grasp of language.

“Yes. Made her drink it. she wouldn’t stop screaming some nights. Almost tore through the box” and she chuckled, low and out of tune, rapping her knuckles against the wood. The wood was thick, a couple inches at least. Designed to last, until death do they part.

God, why was he thinking about the wood, not when she was laying so clear the lines of the Count’s depravity. From here, the screaming could probably be heard for miles, filtering through the air like a high-pitched howl. And Dracula was doing this? Keeping her on her own blood, feeding on herself like a starved swine.

“So he learnt. We learnt too, when he stopped feeding her. Own blood is not good. Makes you…”

“Savage.” He spoke, like ice. How Dracula had punished him, warned him, and even worried for him, all on his own blood. How it had burned on his tongue deliciously.

“All wrong.”

So, and Jonathan couldn’t make up his mind, he had been trying to save him then. Save him from himself, quite literally, from his own desire to live. Was that burning feeling, that grasping urge inside that demanded he survive wrong? Survive to spite, survive to see another sunrise- all those things that had inched him closer to _this_. 

It was wrong, so wrong, yet she revulsed him. This creature of confinement and shadows, borne from pain, was a monster. He could see what she must have been before the dreadful clutches of this place took hold under her skin, under her soul, but those reminders only chilled his blood more. Could he, if under some misstep, some wrong word, end up like this? It was awful, awful, but a shameful part of him didn’t want to end up like her.

Maybe then, as he stroked the moth-fur wing of hope in his trembling hands, she didn’t have to either.

“What’s your name?” he asked, looking just into those brown eyes.

She sat for several minutes, her chest rising and falling like the movements of a branch in a breeze. Her breath seemed to come on command, wheezing through her throat audibly, so that he could hear the hiss of it between her teeth.

“Vera.” She nodded, finally.

He placed his hand on the glass, like the first time, watching as her eyes lit up with recognition.

“Would you like to come out Vera?”

For a moment, she seemed to glimmer, an untamed tremble in her limbs. Suddenly, it was tamped out, replaced by her quickly recoiling back, her hands scratching on the wooden planks.

“No, no. He knows.” She hissed, eyes searching around the shadows.

“I promise, I swear- he doesn’t. I could let you out!” he implored, his own hand trembling at the thought of it.

“Not now. Not so close to night. He would find me.”

“You said I was his friend, well I am. I can protect you.” And he nodded, more to himself than anything else.

“Maybe, maybe.” She seemed to calm, dancing her fingers against her cheeks.

“He is leaving soon, _we_ are leaving soon.” And hope fluttered in his palm. Her eyes met his, and his expression softened, trying to tell her everything without a word. What the sunlight felt on his skin, the wind in his hair, and the crunch of frosted grass beneath his feet. Things she hadn’t known for years, all behind a latch. She blinked, fat teardrops trailing down her face.

“Maybe then, you could…” 

“I will, I promise.” And with that he smiled, laughed even.

“He wouldn’t notice, not with his friend.” She was talking to herself now, Jonathan too wrapped up in the idea to notice how she nodded, lips curled in some notion of a smile.

“Okay, okay,” and he sighed, rubbing his eyes as they prickled in the darkness. He began to stand, wiping the dust off his knees when she tapped harshly against the glass in quick staccato.

“Wait, wait friend.” And he leant back down, watching with tingling cheeks as she crawled on her hands and knees to one corner of the box, running her fingers against the grain of wood meticulously.

“When… when you come back for me. You will have this-“ and she pulled back a plank, one worn thin by clawed hands. She dipped her fingers inside, pulling out a length of tattered string. The thing dangled, sparkled, as she held it up to the light.

It was a crucifix.

“No use… in here.” And she nodded at him, almost smiling as she placed it back.

Jonathan blinked, his eyes wide. A word was seized in his throat.

Hope fluttered its tiny wings in the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I love them.  
> The brides are really interesting characters to work with, because they are both so strongly typed into this character, and also have no personality of their own. I rather liked the brides in boxes rather than the typical "sexy vampire ladies" because I suppose it gave a little more room for their own character and Dracula's? I'm not sure, other than I spent a certified too much time trawling through naming websites for suitable names. Ever heard of the Tiffany problem? Yeah it was a little like that.  
> Thank you all so much for your lovely advice and feedback. Not only is it informative, but it's just plain heartwarming.   
> Please let me know what you think of this fic! There's going to be a slight change of scenery for a bit, which is definitely refreshing, but the castle's glooms won't be gone for long. How long might is take for someone to travel from England to Hungary back in the 1800s?  
> Thank you for reading! xx


	15. Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'So then, this was Miss Mina Murray'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> A change of focus in this chapter, but trust me, it's well needed.  
> I hope you enjoy!

Have you ever looked up to all that’s around you, and wondered: is this it?

The trees and their sprawling branches, endless cycles of bloom and fall, until some rust clawed iron bites them to dust. Is that all there is- repetition, until death?

It was a little hard to have faith in anything else- in the extraordinary, when she had watched so many seasons of bloom from her window, dusted both with petals and snow equally. To the convent’s great bricks, it would have been a blink, her existence. A mere scratch on the wall, then nothing. What else could her life be, but scratches on an endless wall, hoping that one day someone could make something of it?

Damn it, she was getting sentimental again.

Agatha tapped her pen harshly against the paper, sighing to herself as great blobs of ink stained the page. She could hear her sisters outside, tending the garden, walking, praying, and it was hard not to get into this stormy mood. How long had it been, a week? Since the last letter, and if that did not mean a journey’s end then she would be astounded. Mina, Mr Harker’s fiancée, was the most peculiar woman.

The great chimes of the midday bells for prayer echoed into her chamber, and she stood up from the desk, pulling back the chair with a scrape. It was no use dwelling on these things she already knew- the mess of notes and symbols on her workbook. Her mind was too consumed to think of translating further any more texts- a process so arduous that she had even resulted to prayer, if but just to put off the task.

She peered out from the workshop window, blinking into the light. The snow was beginning to melt, packed in clumps by the pathways, and forming slushy puddles that she trailed her habit in. Mother Superior would scold her for that too, but she could only laugh. Why would God have made skirts so long, if not to muddy them? A little blasphemous, perhaps, as was her speciality.

The ink was dry- good, she noted, touching the page delicately to check. She closed the book, placing it atop the others piled high on the desk. She would need to ask for more ink, she thought absently, fiddling with a candleholder thick with dust. And candles too- she seemed to work better in the dark. Her fascination crawling out from the shadow of her soul in the sunlight, free in the suitably gloomy mood. Her skirts were dry, if she kept them that way Mother Superior would be in a good enough mood not to refuse her. What a game this was, asking for things she shouldn’t have.

The air down in this study was dappled, almost like she was underwater. A night owl, Sister Rosa had teased over supper. Once, even falling asleep whilst saying prayers before eating, knocking her head quite harshly on the table that she still had the bruise to remember it by. The Lord gives me strength, she’d answered back, rubbing her head.

Maybe the Lord’s strength, but all of his foolishness too.

Ah, a shame- she noticed in putting back the candles, the dead flowers she had long since forgotten about. They were dry, brown and crackled like postage paper. A touch of colour in the buds like those dried out watercolours, and they crunched in her fingertips. Something to brighten up the place, she’d remembered, when she had first arrived in this chamber. Lucky enough to have her own study, she’s paid enough in prayers and chores to be thankful for that. Still, she furrowed her brow as she gently pulled the flowers out of their delicate pot, it was never enough.

Never enough, in the most unlikeliest positions.

Never enough, she had found, had often been just right.

It was one thing to be underestimated, another to be ignored entirely. She quirked her lip in a smile, glancing upwards to the light and sound. That, she made enough.

~

Hurrying quickly, she bit a curse under her breath as her rosary almost dropped from her hand. Damned thing, always in the way- tangling in skirt pockets and as was her habit for snapping, spilling the black beads onto the floor. Agatha bunched it up, stuffing it into a pocket, not caring about the untangling she would have to do later. 

Her footsteps were light and quick on the tile, rushing, almost running to the entrance. She felt a little flushed as she paused by the doorway, peering out to the carriage that had stopped in the courtyard. The door opened, and a young woman stepped out, looking about her surroundings cautiously. She seemed to pause in conversation, nodding, all whilst observing the great stone architecture of the convent. She had on a travelling cloak, finely made, and her golden hair tucked neatly into a dark bonnet. A moment, then she sturdied herself, smiling up to the driver in farewell.

So then, this was Miss Mina Murray.

She pushed a stray hair behind her veil, clenching her fingers tightly behind her back, before walking out to greet her.

“Miss Murray, I presume?”

Mina was something different to her letters. Her face was flushed in the cool bite of the air, from the travel, blooming with a dusting of freckles. Despite her best efforts, her hair seemed to tangle and spill from the travelling cap, coiling neatly by her neck. She looked… well she looked much like a woman that was desperately worried for her fiancé. Very much the English rose, Mina looked the picture of class-caged beauty and tameness. There was little wonder why her Jonathan had fallen in love with her, she noted absentmindedly as she turned in surprise to face Agatha, yet she couldn’t pin the author of her letters to any character of her face. The biting wit, and quick observations that had Agatha wondering if she had written something in her sleep, attached her notes, anything to give away a clue to the sharp mind of Miss Mina Murray. Despite the circumstances, she had enjoyed finding the crumpled letters in her pigeon hole, the fine hand and finer mind it promised. This, she thought, was a brilliant cover indeed for a dull book.

“My name is Sister Agatha, welcome to St Mary’s Convent of Budapest.” She smiled, watching as Mina flustered in putting down her case to greet her.

“Miss Murray, I am so very glad to see you.” A look of relief cast over her face, as she casually brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“How were your travels here? Let me help you with these-” and Agatha leant over to pick up one of her cases.

“Unexpected. I never thought I’d travel as far as this corner of the Continent, so I’m afraid I was a little unprepared,” Mina shouldered the other bag, as she followed Agatha through the courtyard. “Thank you for this.”

“This is nothing, you’ve packed lightly for such a trip.” And they walked together under the archways by the garden, Mina’s shoes tapping on the stone whilst her own were silent.

“Thank you, Sister Agatha. For inviting me.” Mina paused, looking up at her with a look of utmost gratitude. Despite it all, she smiled.

The room made for her was nothing like she could have imagined Miss Murray was used to in England. It was a room designed for a woman of faith- bare, and missing much. She had had the sharp forethought, she reminded herself, to repurpose the flower vase in her study. Mina’s eyes seemed to light up with the pale blue crocuses of the spring, and Agatha picked at the dirt under her nails behind her back. 

“I hope this suits you, there is an inn in town if you would prefer.” Her voice betrayed an ounce of uncertainty, making herself wince. She did so desperately want to keep Mina close, but the way she recoiled her hands from the rough bed linen made her worry.

“This is perfect Sister Agatha, thank you. It’s more than enough.” Mina turned, her face catching the last rays of the sunlight.

“Agatha, please. You do not need to address me formally here.” She huffed as she placed the case by the bedside. Mina packed light maybe, but not light enough for what she was used to.

“Then call me Mina. I can’t bare one-sided formality.”

Taking a minute to rest, Mina untied her cape and bonnet, shaking out her hair. The locks fell, and caught the flecks of sunlight that poured from the window, glittering across her back. Agatha turned away.

“I expect you’ll want supper. It shouldn’t be long now, the sisters tend to have a fire burning all day this time of year. Very nice to rest your feet by.” Agatha winked, and pulled back to the doorway. Mina snickered, propping up one case on the bed and flicking open the latches. 

“Shall I call for you?” she called out, resting herself on the doorframe.

“No, actually, I’d like to get to business with you first.” Mina smiled up at her, holding her gaze in a way that actually made Agatha reconsider.

“Supper can wait then.” She nodded, folding her hands in front of her unconsciously. 

Mina didn’t unpack, instead moving aside a few things, and pulling out from the trunk very brief items. Agatha knew she had keen eyes, which was why she was surprised at how Mina trembled, placing on the small, lopsided desk in the room a pocketbook, a pen set, and a photo-frame. 

The pocketbook was supple black leather, but by the looks of it used, with its paper beginning to crinkle and fold in the way it can only do from the touch of the human hand. The pens were magnificent to her, and Agatha eyed them for a long time, in their shining, sleek neatness, and pots of fine ink.

By the flowerpot, Mina folded open the photo-frame. Made of engraved silver, it flashed a little in the light, opening with a subtle click. The photo was faded, and she could hardly see from behind Mina’s frozen form, but, as she squinted…

“Is that...?” she daren’t move, but peered from her spot at the doorway, and the faded face in the photograph gazed back.

Mina turned, her hand still resting on the frame of the picture. Her fingers seemed to tightly clench at it, almost instinctively, but her face softened. The frame snapped shut with a click, and she tucked it into her pocket.

“It’s hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was perhaps the most singularly interesting and divisive character study I've done for a while.  
> After taking on board some of your hopes and comments surrounding Agatha and Mina, I've decided to expand upon them in ways I think are fascinating. In particular, the show's understanding and presentation of Mina was limited at best, and who better in which to tell her story than Mina herself? More than just the pretty picture Jonathan keeps in his pocket, Miss Mina Murray is a force to be reckoned with both in and on the page. Expect.
> 
> I'm trying to update every other day (I do need to live!), which seems to be a fairly effective schedule.  
> If you enjoyed this, want to talk about Mina or Agatha or anything to do with this fandom please comment, or chat to me via my tumblr (commonsenseispaineful), I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> Here's a lingering question, do y'all listen to anything whilst you read? A curious wondering from someone who plugs herself in to write.
> 
> Thank you for reading xx


	16. Altered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there's anything you can do I can do better...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can do characterisation better than you...  
> A little late one (sorry! travel), but very worth it.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> (<3 from me to you this valentines!)

Agatha smiled under her breath, as with the first striking against the rough sandpaper walls, the match lit. Bursting into little flecks of fire, she held her breath, cradling it in her hand. Like the newly sprouted saplings, she tendered it, holding it up to the wick of the candle until the wax dripped thick and hot.

She must ask for more candles.

Agatha bent over the table, lighting the few other stubs of candles she had left, whilst Mina peered from the doorway. her eyes darting from wall to wall of drawings, paintings and paper, lit up by the match. The last dregs of the sun were dripping from the window, setting the room in a burning hue.

“This is where you work?” she asked, turning about in awe, her skirts swishing on the stone.

“Yes, it’s rather fitting isn’t it?” Agatha stretched, closing her eyes as she flexed the muscles in her back. The chair too, she had thought, had always thought, in the mornings where her aching back kept her from sleep, would need to change.

Mina stepped forward, clasping her hands in front of her as she examined Agatha’s desk. He fingertips seemed to quiver, as she devoured the pages and pages of notes with her gaze.

“I’ve re-read the letters, on the coach here. I want to know everything.” She spoke eventually, holding her hands tight.

“In due course, but I have a favour to ask of you first,” Agatha shook the match in her hand, watching as the thin trails of smoke fluttered in the air, “could you get the door?”

Mina seemed to blink in surprise, then strode over, pushing it with her hands until it clicked shut with a satisfying weight. It was embossed with metal loops around its centre, heavy iron bolts bordering the hinges. The world seemed cut off, like diving into water, as it slid shut.

“Thank you, the drafts are unbearable. With all this paper, and the flame…” Agatha winced at a painful memory, wallowing in the whine of the chair as she pulled from the desk to a small table in the centre of the room.

“Come, sit.” And she laid a hand out before her, gesturing to the seat pulled up to her own.

She seemed to pause, thinking over this great room, before sitting next to her. Mina had to pull in her skirts, the fabric crumpled in her hand as she squeezed between the table and chair. Silk, Agatha noted, underneath the cotton travelling smock. Blue silk.

“You’ve read the letters, and I’ve told you much, but not everything in them. There is a little more to the story than I could commit to paper.” She could see Mina’s eyes glazing over with the volume of journals Agatha had piled on her desk, her mind mussed in counting it all.

“I want to hear all of it, I’m not afraid of knowing.” She said, resolutely. Her face seemed to tighten, biting her lip.

“Good. Where shall we start?”

Furrowing her brow, Mina leant her hands on the table, almost as if in frustration.

“I’ve read the legends, although I do not say I understand them. The libraries in London, they have a few fairy tales of creatures like you told me of.”

Oh, so Mina had been meaning in her delay in travelling. Her letters had been sparse, and scrawled, like under unsteady light. The image of this golden creature, bent over a book old enough it flaked ink under her fingertips, flashed to her mind.

“Not much of this makes sense Mina. Those fairy tales were probably the best you could have read. They are simply science that we have resigned to the realm of stories, rather than to investigation. I seek to remedy that.”

Pulling out her notebook, she laid it open on the table. As she flicked to the page, she noted the blotchy quality of the leather binding it, how its own sallow pages were worn with use and age. She rested her hand on it once she found what she was looking for, pressing out the creases in the paper as she laid bare her notes.

“This is what I know to be true, without any doubt.” 

Her hand was scrawled over itself in messy script, and out of the mess of ink stains and sketches rose the tenants of her beliefs. The core components of vampirism, fact and nothing but it. Her bible.

“These… creatures. How they shun the daylight like a raging fire, their need to sleep in their own soil, even the shape of their teeth-“ and with that she tapped a fingertip at one drawing; a sketch accompanying the fact that the contagion caused changes to the hosts anatomy. It was blurry, from where she had redrawn it from weeks of study. The mangled teeth sat glooming in a jar, hidden away in her desk. They were pointed to the touch, so sharp that in her haste to collect them she had fumbled, nicking her fingers on the points. 

Watching Mina read, Agatha felt a kindle of pride in her work. This, scratches on the stone walls of tombs. It could all be burnt to ashes, but wouldn’t defy the fact that someone, once, had ran their hands along the stone, and nicked their nails in her marks.

Mina read quietly, for many minutes, nothing but the slow tide of her breathing and the flick of her eyes across the paper. Her face as set as stone, Mina pulled back, looking up to meet her eyes.

“What is Count Dracula?” 

That, was something she was yet to find out. Agatha secretly puzzled for a moment, before meeting her gaze. It was hard to put into words the things she had heard whispered in the most frail of voices, or the grave wide-eyed looks of those who travelled in those lands.

“In life, he was a prince of exceptional learning and attainment. In death, I suppose you could say he’s the best of the vampires. The most successful, I mean.” She pressed her palms to the surface of the pages, looking down at the scrawled drawing.

“Most are feral, half-mad. They rarely last long. And yet, somehow, Dracula has found a way to retain his human form and intellect, more or less intact, for hundreds of years.”

“By drinking blood.” Mina’s voice dripped with disgust.

“Ah, they all drink blood. Dracula has learned to do it well. I think, by choosing his victims with the greatest of care. Even in death, he has retained the discrimination of an aristocrat.” And there was some humour in that thought, and she almost had to restrain a smile.

“Why my- Why Jonathan?” she stuttered, rephrasing, poising herself on the table straighter.

“I think it would be better to ask, why not? Count Dracula is a connoisseur, and your fiancée is the first fresh meat in his larder for decades, so to speak.”

“Do, do you think he’s killed him?” Her eyes were wide, with what Agatha wasn’t quite sure. She was afraid, that was certain, but something else in there spoke of a spark not so readily told in her demeanour. If she was bold, Agatha might even say that she was angry.

“I don’t know for sure. It wasn’t his intention, but I believe Jonathan is in great danger.”

Agatha stood up, motioning for Mina to keep sitting. Running her fingers on the heavy drawers of her desk, she found the one she was looking for. She huffed a little in satisfaction as when she tugged open the great bronze handles she was proven correct, lifting from within a sizeable pile of letters and a rolled up drawing.

“Why wouldn’t he want to kill him?” Mina’s voice interjected her thoughts, tilting her head a little at the stack of papers Agatha carried back to the table.

“I propose,” and she dropped them down, spilling a little over the surface, “that Dracula learns from those he feeds off, taking something of them if you will. It’s why-” and she unrolled the paper, revealing a gigantic map that stretched from corner to corner, “- disappearances have been spreading out further and further from his castle.”

She tapped at a point in the map’s centre, marked on the page. Around it, littered several other coloured tags, filling out the expanse of Eastern Europe, or as much of it as Agatha could draw on the page. It was a little crude, her impressions as far as the islands in the Black Sea where more like black blobs of ink than anything remarkable. Still, she reasoned, it made her point.

Mina peered at it, once or twice walking her fingers between points to measure the distance, counting under her breath. Then, after deliberating, she looked back up with a curious expression.

“Variety?” 

Agatha’s face lit up, catching a smile before she looked back to the map.

“Precisely! Maybe he’s grown tired of shepherds and sheep shearers, maybe he’s extending the net for a better catch. See these marks?”

She tapped at a particular set of symbols, drawing Mina’s fine eye.

“Missing women, young, between nineteen and twenty-five. All greatly educated, and acquaintances of the same finishing school in Switzerland.”

She caught her breath a little, gasping at the excitement of being able to tell someone her work- let alone having it be understood! She must control herself, a part of her warned, but she just pressed on.

“Or here, the same retired troop from a Prussian regiment, highly recommended in their field for tactical endeavours.”

“But they’re at least a hundred miles apart from one another!” Mina burst out, her thumb and fingertips barely touching the two points as she spread her hand out on the page.

Agatha shrugged, placing a stray letter back onto its pile. The looping cursive of one anxious mother asking about her daughter, another from a captain’s wife.

“Death travels fast I suppose.”

Mina’s face was scrunched in thought, fiddling with her hands as she spoke, “So, if I understand, this monster- Count Dracula, learns from one of these people. Absorbs- their skills, their mind, like a map. Hunting down the rest from their memories?”

“Yes! Like a connoisseur chasing down a casket of vintage. I don’t believe he can let good taste get away from him. He takes a bite, then is hooked, stalking from person to person, country to country after the knowledge he so craves.”

“That’s why he wanted Jonathan, because he’s a lawyer.” Mina’s eyes widened, nodding to herself.

“Yes, well no, not just that.” Agatha interjected, drawing her hand forward and tapping it onto the island in the corner of the page, “Because he’s English Mina.”

“That doesn’t seem very flattering.” Mina mumbled, frowning. Ah, the English sense of pride coming through at last, Agatha smiled. Even put out, Mina’s eyes still sparkled with inquisitiveness.

“Perhaps not, but it’s why Dracula demanded he come to Transylvania in the first place. For his language, for his manners, for his-“ and Agatha trailed off, her fingertips stilling on the page. Oh, she remembered, this was the dead man’s fiancée.

“Blood.” Mina answered.

“Yes,” she sighed, reaching out a hand onto Minas, “for his blood.”

Mina was warm, despite the chill of the stone around her. She turned her hands around, interlinking her fingers with Agatha’s. Her nails were fine, and cut to a neat point, where her own were bitten and ink-stained, Agatha noted.

“So, there’s a chance, a chance he isn’t dead.” She began to speak, her breath below a whisper.

“I don’t know Mina.”

Her hands trembled, and Agatha wondered why Mina let her feel this, let her hold her. To be so alone, and so vulnerable, in the company of complete strangers. The room was quiet, except for the soft sounds of the night filtering through the window. Agatha sighed, watching as Mina collected herself. Mina looked up to her, and instead of tear-stains she was met with a suspicious squint.

“…How do you know all of this?”

It was her time to squirm, feeling Mina hold on a little tighter to her. What, with these relics of her craft strewn around her, could she say?

“I have a… penchant for dealing with the supernatural.”

Mina still stared, daring her to continue with a gentle raise of her eyebrows.

“You heard from your acquaintance of an odd nun on the continent, adept with finding people.” She continued, feeling like the knot of tangled beads in her pocket.

“I thought that was through prayer. Like the strange women you see in the circuses, the ones who find those who are lost, can speak to the dead.” Mina quirked her lips, releasing her hand. It was not surprising, how twisted a tale could become over so many miles, Agatha thought, mentally rolling her eyes.

“Most do, but I am not one of them. I am known to have some expertise in the realm of witchcraft and the occult. Family business.” And smiled to herself.

Blood. What her life had always floated on, was this blood. The blood of others she sought to avenge, and that which flowed in her veins- a calling. It was poetic almost, if she had the care for such imaginings, of her life being contained in her veins. Blood was her life.

“I believe being a nun helps then. To be underestimated that is.” Mina’s voice was quiet, muted.

She slowly spun the band of silver on her finger, with a delicate gemstone as it’s crown. Mina, with her ring, holding it like it was the only light in the world. 

She felt quite keenly that Mina understood that feeling of being underestimated too.

Taking a deep breath, Agatha rested her hand on the book, feeling the flutter of its fragile pages under her fingers.

“I have always had this fascination, and even since taking the cloth it has only grown stronger. The beckon of the shadows of this world- the things even the good book averts its eye to. Things stories only whisper about when we are children. Of those monsters in the woods and under our beds. Why, when those shadows turn upon our soul, can we not learn about them, learn to fight against them? I am a clever woman, I’m already a foot in hell by my faith’s standards. Why not look around a little while I’m here?”

Her eyes turned to the page, she almost didn’t see the way Mina’s lips quivered, quietly mouthing:

“Amen.”

She felt in that moment very keenly that despite her unstained fingers, Mina and her were connected not just by ink. Something, something she had latched onto on those first letters: of observations, and theories and an amazing mind. Two bound books, same editions, with differently worn covers.

“Enough of me,” and she rolled the map up, tying it neatly with string. “I have another favour to ask of you.”

“What is it?” 

“Your fiancé, Mr Jonathan Harker, could you describe him to me?” Agatha leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“If this is some way of mending my heart, I assure you it will not work.” Mina spoke bitterly, looking away, blinking.

“There’s no use mending it until we know what’s broken. No, I need to know what he looks like, in case- in case we find him.”

At that moment she wanted to clasp at her rosary beads, running her fingers over their smooth surface like a prayer. It would do better than this, watching Mina look out to the moonlight, her eyes wet and bright. 

“Well, he’s… he’s my Johnny. He’s taller than me, with fair features. He has a high brow, and fine auburn hair. It gets ginger in the summer, with the sunlight,” and Mina smiled, glowing from the inside.

“He’s got blue eyes, the most blue you’ve ever seen. They get misty with just a drop of wine too, and he smiles more then. He has the loveliest smile.”

She should tell her to focus by now, but Agatha couldn’t bear to pull Mina out of her memory. She had had some brief description too by his employer, more factual: English, slender, with fair features like Mina had said but always on the touch too skinny. The type to starve himself, and to let others eat, she had deduced, especially as the ring glinted in the candlelight.

“You miss him.” Agatha stated, watching as Mina looked wistfully, her hair falling down either side of her face in slight curls.  
Agatha waited before placing her hand on hers, biting her lip.

“You may have to prepare yourself- he might have changed since…”

“I know.” Mina gritted her teeth, looking down to the floorboards.

“If, if that is the case, we’ll prepare him before you see him. He’ll have dignity.”

She was honestly afraid of what that meant. The convent had been asked to help with bodies before, preparing funerals and the like. Still, her stomach turned, in what state could she still call him a creature with a soul?

“No, I’m coming with you.” Mina interjected her inner dialogue, and Agatha was a little taken aback by how she had almost jumped forward.

“I’m sorry?”

“I came here to find my Johnny, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If there is anyone who will find him, and carry him back to England, it is me. I wish, no, I want to travel with you Agatha.” She spoke resolutely. Despite all appearances, Mina’s will was pressing upon her like the heat of the midsummer sun, heavy and inescapable.

“Mina, I cannot. I will not put you in such danger-“ she began to protest, cut off by Mina’s determined expression.

“You will, because if there’s anything he could do, I know I can face the same dangers with as brave as a face. Moreso, perhaps.”

Mina’s hand did not tremble under hers anymore. The seconds dragged by like hours, and under that blazing determination, Agatha felt her resolve melt.

“And you are sure about this, there is nothing I could do to turn your heart?”

She met Mina’s unwavering eyes with concern, yet a small part of her, a part she kept hidden under the thickest blankets of night, grinned. 

“I thought it wasn’t a nun’s profession to tempt one into submission. I am certain. If I cannot see the face of my love, then I can spit in the face of the monster who took him from me.”

Despite it all, Mina was flushed, glowing from the thought of her adventure. Coming so far, it would be unwise to stop the force that had swept from England to a world far beyond the libraries of her home. Agatha smiled, trying to hide it under her veil, and nodded.

So then, _this_ was Miss Mina Murray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of them? I love them together, and I feel there was some sorely missed interactions in the series. Mina is so much more interesting than they made her (granted she was played very well), but ah! If she wasn't limited to just one episode!  
> Thank you all for the kudos and comments, bit of a writing binge this weekend (of the fun and unfun kind), so expect more prompt updates. Yell at me below!
> 
> Thanks x


	17. Dolce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traitorously, torturously sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late because of the storm, but highly inspiring.  
> Enjoy!

There’s a beauty in the horror of it, Jonathan realises idly.

Like the sunlight perfectly reflecting in the eyes of the rabbit, dangling from the fox’s jaw- Jonathan can’t help but find some simplicity in the perfectness of his death, and his life after.

Maybe he was the rabbit.

He breathed heavily as he leant against the bookshelf, running his tongue over the taste of blood on his teeth. Sweet iron- it was hard to describe. Between the miasma of memories that clawed their way to his mind. The taste was rather hidden beneath it. Peering from behind some childhood dream, or curled behind the last flash of fear that always tainted the bite- it eluded him. It must come with practice, Dracula’s sheer appreciation for the taste. What he called fine vintage, as he mused often to Jonathan, and what he did not.

To him, it was all sweet and soft and thick.

Under his fingers, the books seemed warm- glowing by the fireplace. This little library- a small study- seemed to be filled with sunlight. Not actual sunlight, he noted as he observed the pale fingers of moonlight spill between the curtains, but the warmth of it. The fire radiated it, and under his touch, the leather covers felt like the warm flesh of ripened fruit of a summer’s afternoon. Picking fruit, at home, and the sunshine spilled from his memories. He remembered the apples, so many that he could barely carry them all, wrapping them up clumsily in sheets. He would bruise half as many as he would collect, not that it mattered much, for most lay where they fell- soft and brown in decay. Apples that would be baked into pies, or slumber in barrels for autumn cider- red and golden as the sunburn that dusted his brow.

He felt his skin prickle at the warmth, and shivered. Dracula didn’t seem to be able to feel the cold.

In fact, when he’d first met him- alive- Jonathan was frightened at how icy his hands lay on his. He’d been worried for the old man’s health, in this dingy, airy castle. How ironic.

Dracula sat by the fire, a wineglass dangling in his fingertips- full. 

“Why the books?” Jonathan asked without looking, his hand resting on the bookshelf.

“What do you mean?” Dracula quirked an eyebrow, reclining a little in the chair, like a cat sunning itself.

“The new ones, here-“ and he plucked one by the spine, its glossy cover gleaming in the faint light. Its lettering was in bossed silver, like wet ink on the rich black surface.

Dracula hummed as he showed him the cover, flicking open a few pages to unfamiliar script. He blinked, and the words revealed themselves in an instant.

“What do you want me to say my dear Johnny? Variety, perhaps. I wanted to learn about the outside world before your arrival, and the libraries today are so informative.” He smirked, raising the glass to his lips as he kept Jonathan’s gaze. Jonathan’s nerves trembled, as he kept himself still and smiling.

“How many do you have here, do you know?” Slotting the book back in its place, he ran his eyes over the bookshelves. Despite being the smaller of the studies, it ran floor to ceiling with books, too many that he lost count.

“I’m sure there’s records somewhere. Maybe in the realm of, oh, I don’t know, a thousand?” Dracula waved a hand, raising his cheek a little better to the light of the fire.

Despite not needing to anymore, his heart skipped a beat. He remembered the awe of his university library- running his hands along the spines of books in endless rows. What wonder, was it, that he could stand in the room with so many other minds and souls, bearing themselves to be read? He’d acquired a pale and dark look in his first term after so many nights reading, reading all he could get his bitten hands on. Scrounging for candles, trading notes for matches. And now? This very room alone was a treasure trove. 

His material side told him the books here must be worth something very pretty, and the side of him that still tossed and turned awake at night, still engorged on the page, seemed to swoon. How many years, how many centuries, of souls were there? Still trapped in this castle, nailed between the page and left for the spiderwebs to enfold?

“It is a shame-“ he started, quietly, “that you will leave so many of them behind.”

He paused, waiting for some reply, but Dracula merely hummed. It was frustrating, so many of these precious things left to rot. Already rotting. Such beautiful, precious things, locked away, and scratching on their cage walls to be free.

Jonathan wandered over to the fireplace, unbuttoning his waistcoat lazily in the amber glow. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Dracula fixated on the slow, meticulous descent of his fingers from button to button, pausing at the last for a long moment. He waited. He savoured. He smiled as he popped the last one, sitting down onto the rug by the fireplace to bask in it.

“Have you read them all?” he asked, tossing his head to the man who almost startled in his chair.

“Yes, probably-“ Dracula hastily answered, readjusting himself in the seat, “-although some are so dull that they aren’t worth remembering.”

“Surely there’s something worthwhile in all these pages? Why would you waste the ink on it otherwise?” Jonathan quirked his head, and Dracula blanched at him, smiling condescendingly.

“Have you tried reading Moby Dick?”

At that, Jonathan tipped his head back, laughing. He had tried to stifle it, but it rose like bubbles in champagne, and he found himself flushed by the fire. The rabbit laughing in the fox’s jaws, and his eyes crinkled with young crow’s feet. As he giggled, he felt his breath slip away with a thought, a thought that made him gulp for air. He had laughed, and he had meant it this time.

Hidden underneath his own mellow laughter, and the snapping crackle of the fireplace, Jonathan didn’t notice how Dracula was silent. He didn’t see his dark eyes rest on Jonathan’s blushed face, the tilt of head as his breath drew still. Like something bearing its throat, dropping a shadowy cloak, Dracula stared, almost shocked.   
For a keen moment, as he could not tear his gaze from Jonathan hastily trying to catch his breath, it was like stepping into the sunlight.

“The call to sea not something you share?” he spoke, still breathing hard a little.

Dracula leaned forward, dark and close, the blood in his cup barely touching the rim where it had begun to tip, threating to spill.

“On the contrary. I care awfully about crossing it. The obsession with sea creatures on the other hand, not so much.” 

Jonathan huffed out a laugh, feeling at the precipice of something. Dracula held it for a second that seemed like an hour, then pulled back. He sighed unconsciously, fidgeting a little on the floor. The familiar ache of pins and needles were long gone, yet he couldn’t fight a habit.

“So,” Jonathan began, weighing up the words between his teeth, “what could you tell me about them?”

They both looked around, Dracula gazing at the gleaming glossy bookshelves. Jonathan’s gaze was fixated on the highest point, to the ceiling, to the rooms far above.  
And then, with all condescension vanishing from his voice, Dracula spoke:

“I can tell you all sorts of stories.” He lingered, his words whispering above the fire.

Jonathan shuffled a little closer to the fireplace, hiding his shiver with a yawn. The promise of stories long since drained of ink, forgotten by the homestead fireplaces where at such a time of night they would be told. Of things lost by the fog of the past, trapped in this monstrous creature that smirked and stared at him.

“What do you want me to tell you my dear Johnny?” he asked again, his words like thunder and honey.

Jonathan hurt in deliberating, and stung in remembering. The map had left but the faintest scratches on his chest, fading into nothing but pink and pale flesh after a blink. And yet, those inkless scars were still scratching.

“Tell me about the brides. Who they are.”

The wind rattled the windowpanes, bending under the low howl of the night. Dracula frowned, his face falling from that dark and delicious expression Jonathan had to stare into the fire to ignore. 

“They are nothing to you.” He glowered, spitting out each word whole.

Almost nothing outside his nightmares, but everything else in between. He shuffled a little closer to where Dracula sat, watching his dark eyes soften and warm even despite his reticence to give Jonathan anything useful. Jonathan nodded, and from his spot, tilted his head up to meet those hesitant eyes.

“Tell me one of their stories then.” He spoke quietly, fresh blood thrumming under his veins. He waited, bearing his neck to the cold air, and to burning gaze that lurked on it. His heart seemed to thump like rabbits feet, faster and faster in the open plains. Was it too soon? Was it too obvious?

And then, Dracula _melted_. Reaching out a hand to dance along Jonathan’s cheek. Closing his eyes, Jonathan smiled inwardly, focusing on the warmth that caressed his skin, not on the cool fingertips that lay just at his pulse. 

He just had to focus on that. On the sun, and the warmth, and the thunder and the honey that pulled him close and crept its nails into his heart.

Letting go, Dracula took a sip from the cup, placing it to the floor with care. Jonathan’s senses twitched at the smell, and opened his eyes, watching as Dracula lay back into his seat victoriously, traitorously licking his lips.

Catching Jonathan’s gaze, Dracula smiled, and began to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> de leche?  
> I hope all readers in the UK at the moment are staying safe and dry. I'm a little stranded at this point, as the train tracks are quite literally underwater, but it only means more time to write.  
> Enjoy this little one, things will be moving on in a bit, so I want to know what you all think at this point for the story's direction and focus. Did you like the narrative of Agatha and Mina?  
> Come chat about the weather in the comments, and thank you all so much, I really value your continued support and love your shared enthusiasm in this show.  
> Thank you! x


	18. Pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jonathan realised, idly, wordlessly, fatally.  
> ~  
> 'The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.' Paradise Lost, John Milton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the ongoing support, I love you all!  
> Enjoy!

Faith is something I never understood about humanity.

The fox trusts that its teeth can bite, the bear that its claws can tear, and the deer that their legs can run- but what is it that you trust? Teeth break, claws blunt and legs tire, but there’s something… meaningless in your understanding of it, trusting in nothing but the things you make up. You trust, and you believe it will never fail you. Does your trust bite, or tear, or run? Do you trust yourselves, when the thing you trust in is a thin as brambles. This, I think, is what your faith is.

She was an uncommon sort. Faith had nothing about her that revealed it, not a glint in her eye or a slip of the tongue. Faith was everybody, a nobody, yet I knew she was different.

She lived where the grass was amber, and the trees sickly and white. The village was so outcast, that the very roads was only tramped down mud, rather than stone. It clung to her boots, her skirts, and when she would pry them off and scrape and clean, the flecks of mud still stained the leather. That’s why the woods were better. Easier, to pull the strands of orange grass out from between her laces than mud. So sick of scrubbing, it clung to the taste of her, so sick of that chalky smell.

So, faith, and Faith, she hated foxes. It was almost a belief, an obsession. They hate foxes in those small towns, where the ice grows on trees in the winter. But she, more than anyone, loathed them. Miserable creatures. Skulking and staring from the shadows of the forest- and thieves! Faith hated the thieves, hated to pick up the gnawed chicken bones from the garden, stripped clean and sparkling white. There’s a reason why they keep their axes sharp all year round in these towns.

You wouldn’t know this, but she had the most wonderful eyes. 

The region was known for its timber. In spring, just before the rivers thawed and the boats could sail again, the men would strip back the forest of its oldest and greatest creations. The whole town; the tiny, scrapped little place, was transformed into a palace of metal and wood. And the smell! It stuck in the air like ferment, the moment you forgot it and then wind blew and it was like the smoke and hearth and the moss all at once. There is something wonderful about the slow drying of timber- the way the bark stiffens and shrinks, and the grain becomes golden, like ripening fruit.

It was sometime late Spring, and the air was still heavy with woodsmoke. Faith was in the forest again, away from the churned up mud of the busy pathways. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but she couldn’t help herself. The untouched part of the wood- where the trees where too young to fell. Because of this, they had formed spindly networks of roots along the floor, and it was hard not to trip if you didn’t look where you were going. 

There was another reason, Faith remembered when she heard the pain-filled wail. The trees were rotted. Damp from the showers- the wood was thick and swollen with dark water. It had fooled people in the past, and with just one swing of the axe the whole thing would come tumbling down. Heavy, and stinking of decay and mulch.

When she got there, she knew that very thing had happened.

It took Faith a moment, panting hard from the run, but she soon realised how the miserable, bloody creature on the forest floor was actually a young woman. She was tangled up in her own clothes, her legs pinned by the broken tree, dripping its dark water onto her dress. The axe was still lodged in the base, Faith noted as she rushed over, it was a stupid thing to do. This woman, all by herself, like a thief afraid of being caught, flinched at the sight of her. She paused by her side, and reached out a hand. Despite how hard she tugged, she didn’t move, held beneath the rotting husk of bark.

And then- what? Her eyes? Oh yes, I forgot. She did have the most wonderful eyes, like freshly cut wood. The loggers you see, they dried the branches whole, pyramids of them in the town square. And then, on the very first morning when the snow melted away, and the ducks returned to the water, they would crack it open- like a barrel of whisky. The ritual of it was enough to entice me for a while. The town’s best axe, sharpened until the air whistled around it, carved into the centre of the tree. When it splits, it sounds like bread being torn open (she had been very proud of herself for coming up with that one) and heat rises like steam from the wood. Maybe the years of watching this annual ritual coloured her, engraved into her. Faith’s eyes were as bronze as the new wood.

The woman’s hands were cold, and she smiled in pain as Faith crouched next to her, talking to her. What struck her as odd at the time, beside the leg and the log and the blood, was how strange the woman’s voice was. So high-pitched, like a bird. No, no that wasn’t it, what did she tell me… a rabbit? 

She had tried to roll the log over, but just received the mud on her hands and the moans of pain from the woman below her. She only had a glimpse, but the woman’s eyes were very dark, fluttering in between surges of pain as Faith heaved. No good, and her thoughts fell to the other option.

Metal around these parts was scarce, so they learnt to use it well. Axes were old, and worth more than gold- family heirlooms. The iron gleamed in the sunlight, and Faith felt the warm grain of its handle like an embrace. She trusted the axe. The axe never failed.

Faith wretched it free, and turned back to the woman.

Ah, yes I remember. The fox! That’s exactly what she sounded like, her first scream. Wailing, so high that it seemed unreal, unnatural. The pitches that accompanied the night that she had known so well, as she gritted her teeth and clamped her hands around her ears.

And she loved foxes- she really did. She loved their eyes, so dark and black and without a soul. How their voices sounded like her own, all but the screams. Little mimics, foxes of the forest. Thieves of everything, even sound. 

She did love the foxes.

And she loved this young woman too, with her dark eyes and high-pitched yelping. The way she wriggled and writhed from under the log, and how white her skin became as Faith walked forward. Faith’s grip was heavy, and from the corner of her eye she saw the silver glint of the axe smile up from her hand. It wouldn’t take much, maybe just one blow. Right where it was weakest- the seam of the wood, where the branches had begun to bend and writhe and _wriggle_.

She steadied herself, raising the axe high above her head until it looked like the pale tree trunks all around her. The woman below, still wriggling, opened her mouth so wide it looked like a scream. Faith was clever, she knew just where to cut.

The axe was heavy and loose in her hand as it fell, falling so fast that Faith had to squeeze her hands tight around its handle. Beneath, under the swift shadow, the woman’s skin- where it was squeezed by bark and leaf- was stained a fox-like red.

Oh, and did I mention what they do with foxes around there, Johnny?

~

Dracula paused, watching Jonathan unconsciously shiver, sitting cross-legged on the rug. The fire was dying out now, just embers and the rare flicker from its sputtering logs. The light danced against his face, in his eyes, and Jonathan closed them. He closed them, hoping to feign tiredness, or fear- not that he was trying so hard to picture those wide and bloody eyes that stared at him from the crate.

They had been the most wonderful eyes. Like the sun, like fresh timber, as Dracula had said. And yet… and yet he didn’t believe him.

Dracula poised forward, seemingly watching his expression, unaware that Jonathan could keenly guess that. He didn’t know what, but something was wrong about that story. Something, and he could hear the wail in his veins, wasn’t true.

But what proof did he have?

“It’s getting late Jonathan; did you enjoy the story?” Dracula asked, resting his head on his hand, propped against the chair’s armrest.

Jonathan turned, “Is it true?” he burst out, traitorously.

Stupid, stupid decisions. Dracula frowned, then in an instant swept to his feet, with only the flick of his cloak.

“What do you want me to tell you?” and he smiled, bearing teeth.

Jonathan was slow, but he had learnt that smile too well by now.

“It- it doesn’t matter.” And he shook his head hastily, beating a retreat. Why did he ask that? Foolish thing! The words had crept out of his mouth before he could stop them. As he stood up, he clenched his fists where Dracula couldn’t see, trying to calm his heart. He clutched precious few cards, and he wanted to just give them all away?

How could he prove he knew Vera’s eye colour without betraying her?

The story had shaken him something fierce, in a way Jonathan hadn’t known before. It wasn’t the crawls of terror of ghost-stories, it was worse. He could almost picture it, no, he could see it! Somehow, Dracula clutched at his memories, tugging them to the surface, pale and bloated. Not _his_ memories, but the blood was more than enough. The fire spat, and he jumped, startling to his feet.

“Easy now, are you sure you’re alright?” Dracula hushed, by Jonathan’s side in a flash. He wrapped a possessive arm around him, and Jonathan sighed as he felt his breath against his neck. He didn’t shiver anymore; in fact, as Dracula pulled him close, he didn’t flinch from the cold at all.

“My apologies, I don’t know what has gotten into me.” he sighed, sheepishly worrying his hands at the loose buttons on his shirt.

The world suddenly span as Dracula twirled him around, and Jonathan would have felt dizzy if it weren’t for the grounding touch of his hands on his shoulders. He blinked up at him, blue eyes all confusion, as Dracula quirked his head. His face seemed to soften, pulling Jonathan forward by his shoulders as he walked.

“Maybe some fresh air will help,” Dracula smiled down, tearing his eyes away for just an instant. His clawed hands reached out, unhooking the latch from the windows, which came away with a long unused creak. As he pulled back the heavy curtains, his other hand slipped from Jonathans shoulder, down, down his arm until it rested just in the crook of his palm. It didn’t move, just rested, fingertips against Jonathans skin.

He pushed the window open, and the night air bounded in. Jonathan took Dracula’s hand.

The balcony was short, barely enough for one person. Moss and lichen had begun to burrow into the castle’s stone, peeking up from the crevices to watch as Jonathan shuffled into the night.

From here, he could see the tops of the pine trees. Thousands of them, almost to the horizon, where the moonlight rippled and watered on their black boughs. In this light, they looked black, like ink.

The air was cold, but not uncomfortable. Jonathan took a deep breath, counting the seconds before his lungs would have burned. The points of Dracula’s nails tapped against his hand, and he intertwined his fingers a little closer so that they couldn’t scratch. His hands were still warm from where he had sat by the fireplace, and Dracula’s so cold. So cold, that he hopefully didn’t notice how Jonathan’s hands trembled a little, and how he brushed his thumb against the back of Dracula’s hand to soothe them.

“This is helping. Thank you.” He managed after a while. His breath coming smooth now, not missing the dusty, clamouring air of the castle.

Dracula didn’t reply, just held his grip a little tighter. Like the jaws of a fox, his hand held him, and he didn’t protest.

“I didn’t… appreciate the view before. I think I do now.” He murmured, half wanting him not to hear. Dracula tilted his head, wordlessly, his eyes resting to something beyond Jonathan’s gaze.

“Now it’s almost gone. Soon the sunrise, and then we’ll-“ he paused, not sure whether to continue. Almost as if to answer, Dracula leaned over the balcony, plucking something between his fingers. When he turned back, Jonathan realised just how close they were, his feet nudged in-between his.

“You’ll remember.” He hummed, and twirled the sprig of pine leaf in his fingertips. It caught the moonlight, gleaming bottle-black. The scent of pine reclined in the air, awakened by the snap of the branch. From it, a drop of sap beaded, pale green and fragrant.

Dracula lay his hand on his chest, above where his heart used to beat. Still beat, sometimes.

“Won’t you?” and his eyes grew darker than the shadows.

Jonathan nodded, his mouth too dry and numb for words. Humming, satisfied, Dracula carefully tucked the pine sprig into the buttonhole of his shirt. His hands lingered, and their foreheads almost bumped against each other.

Oh, Jonathan realised, idly, wordlessly, _fatally_.

_Oh._

He wanted to kiss Count Dracula.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Vera means Faith? Odd, almost like someone planned it.  
> I'll keep this short and sweet, for I fear I will say too much, but I hope you're going to enjoy the next bit. I've become quite attached to these characters, and I'm interested in your thoughts about the trip to England. How will Dracula and Johnny manage it, could they have done it in the show? It was weird also, that they never mentioned the other brides, or what Dracula did in the month between losing and reuniting with Johnny.  
> I'm too fond, because I have to write his full name in this text, but like Dracula I can't resist calling him Johnny.  
> I like to chat, and thank you for your amazing ideas and comments, you guys are so interesting.  
> xxx


	19. Ego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Me miserable! Which way shall I fly Infinite wrath and infinite despair?' Paradise Lost, John Milton  
> ~  
> “You’ll remember… won’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good whatever. Enjoy this one, it's on me.  
> I make no apologies.

Jonathan awoke just before sunset.

The entire room was drenched in scarlet, dripping from the windowpanes, and he almost wished the curtains closed. He stretched. His limbs feeling a little lighter, and little faster with each passing night. It was like recovering from some early injury, pushing to see what he could do until the pain twitched back. He didn’t feel anything this time.

He hesitated by the heavy curtains for a moment, before deciding to leave them open. It was an invitation he didn’t quite want to give just yet- enticing all the shadows to his sleep.

They were leaving tomorrow.

Jonathan thought over the journey as he pulled on his shirt. A few weeks by carriage, then a month by ship. He tried to only think of the journey, only the turning of wheels that meant being brought closer to England, to home. His newly grown nail snagged on a button, slicing through a few strands of silvery thread, and he hissed in annoyance. 

There were new clothes too.

They had appeared somewhat unceremoniously in his drawers, with nothing so much as an explanation to this fine threadary. He had grown tired of exploring, drinking and sleeping in much the same wearied shirts, stained around the collar that he’d rather forget. He was almost glad then, of the absence of his reflection in the castle.

But the sight of them. Dark, rich fabric that held heavy in his hand. Better than the clothes of a lawyer, and he twisted around to look at himself awkwardly from the strange angle. Deep black trousers, tapered neatly up to a fine charcoal waistcoat. The shirts too, and he had to bite back a smile when he first tried them on, were as smooth as silk-water. As he slipped into the waistcoat, a flash of red caught his eye. Holding the material between his fingers: a patterned crimson lining, hidden almost entirely except to the wearer. This hidden redness, waiting to be peeled back from his skin, was all too familiar and foreign at once.

He had lived with him for a month. Died, for a month too.

What would he change into by the time spring bared its throat to summer?

Lost in his thoughts, Jonathan ran a hand down the fine lapels of the waistcoat. The neat black stiches were barely visible, and he wouldn’t have noticed had his nail not caught on the seam of the pockets. He slipped a hand inside, and, curled up in it was a sprig of pine leaf.

_“You’ll remember… won’t you?”_

And Jonathan very quickly scrunched it up, stuffing it back into his pocket.

~

It felt like mere seconds before he was bounding up the stairs, the capillaries of this castle a well-marked map in his head. He was definitely faster too, leaping up the steps two at a time, something that even in his health he would have been burning up his lungs by now.

He was almost at the top, and a thin scarlet ray of light shone out from underneath the iron doorway, splitting the walls into two like red thread. Like, and he shuddered, faltering a little in his steps, the marks he’d scraped onto the stone in the fog of hunger. Those red trail lines, tracing around the castle like spiders silk. And he did get entangled in them, when he was starving, lost in his own scent, turning in circles.

It was a raw memory, and Jonathan instead pawed his hand at the lump under his breast pocket. This, undefinable, unspeakable pine sprig; he decided he would give it to them. He had his map, they would have theirs. Even trapped in his pocket, the scent of the fresh needles lingered, above the stale air. Maybe, he hoped, this would guide them outside, somewhere far, far away from this place. He didn’t have that power yet, to step outside the castle walls, but maybe they could.

Jonathan’s heart fluttered at the thought, and he closed his hand around the sprig. Strange thing, it was. Meaning absolutely nothing, and everything, all at once. Meaning what he had chosen, last night, when he had stared into the darkness and liked the way it lapped at his skin.

Who knows what ends up defining us?

He reached the final step without even a sore breath. The red thread now lay just below his throat, striking scarlet where his heart was. The light was fading fast, with sun-deaths red hands clawing behind the mountaintop, and Jonathan knew this was the moment.

He knew, smiling as the coarse pine needles itched at his fingertips, and the crisp and sharp fragrance leapt on the air.

And then… something else.

It was all too familiar and foreign at once. The smell prowled under the doldrum currents of the dusty air, lurked in the shadows of his senses, but oh, it was there. Metal, heavy and bitter on the tongue- iron. He scrunched up his nose in a gag, and the smell seemed to stick to his skin like oil. The more he tried to place it, the more it slid away from him, pooling from underneath the crimson glowing door.

Then, Jonathan startled mid-breath, he heard the _sounds_.

His jaw trembled painfully as the crunching, cracking, snapping noise echoed from the room. Underneath it all, and he crept forward to the keyhole like a child, was a small, low, whimpering. Guttural sounds, words that sounded like noises, like an animal, danced low in his gut, making him freeze. They were not words, not in the slightest. They sounded more like the gurgles of oil on screeching machinery, and yet-

He bit into the taste, and the recognition made him bleed, flinging the door open in one fell movement.

The three boxes stood, still where they were, floating in a sea of sunset red. Light filtered through the slats in the windows, cutting up the entire floor into bloody pieces. The shadows stretched, murky and jagged, and Jonathan took a step inside, turning his head to find the source of the sound. At first, the room seemed almost silent. He peered to listen, but all he could hear were the echoes of his recollection reverberating inside his own skull. 

Even the spiders seemed to have fled this place by now, his footsteps dull against the floorboards, inching closer to the boxes. They were much the same, still dusty, scratched but study wood, jutting out in spite of the light to form terrible figures.

A flicker of the red light pierced his eye, and he snapped his neck to look. The sharp Euclidean lines of the boxes, standing unnaturally so, and… a shape.

A dark and form-ful shadow hunched by the window.

And now, now he heard the sounds. Flowing below the current of silence, the slow, cracking crunching sound that came from the shadows. With every break, a whimper.

He edged closer, and a single ray of light from the shutters fell across the shadow. He followed its path with his eyes: the body of this cloaked creature, pinning another to a wall, and the golden eyes that stared straight at him as he suffocated. Vera’s eyes- her burning timber eyes- were awful. There was so much red, the light a facsimile of the thick, crimson substance that dripped slowly, each drop plinking, onto the floor. The figure pushed forward, and the whites of Vera’s eyes were overtaken by red, the most horrible gurgling sound coming from her throat- her chest. The cracking sounds were like splitting wood, but he knew better now. He knew better, as Dracula grasped her jaw with his bloody claws, wrenching it awful and further until-

“Stop!”

His voice shattered the silence, and all the sounds rushed upon him at once. His heartbeat, impossibly loud in his head, as Dracula turned, still pinning the girl, to face him. He was shrouded in shadows, darker than them, he seemed to absorb the light. All except for how the flecks of blood on his skin caught the muted light.   
His hand was still wrapped around the stake, and as he saw more clearly as Dracula turned, almost fully embedded in her chest. Blood dripped pathetically from the grooves of the wood, catching on fingertips before falling to the floor. 

“Stop.” He cried out, weakly.

Jonathan froze as Dracula stared intensely, then in the bloody view of the light, smiled. Vera fell to the floor with a death-like thud, the stake clattering bloody and useless.

“Why- why did you do that?” he pleaded, his limbs crying at him to run, run from the black-bloodied creature that smiled with too many teeth.

Dracula stalked forward, his eyes full and sharp as Jonathan wanted to scream.

“Why-“ and in a blink he was at his side, his teeth inches away from his mouth.

“Because they were useless Johnny.” Dracula purred, imprisoning his eyes in his gaze.

“Because they have no purpose anymore, I don’t need them- I’ve got you.”

With that, Dracula raised a hand, gently cupping his jaw and cheek with long fingers. The shallow smell of death made Jonathan want to gag, as Dracula caressed his skin, wiping the black, clotted blood onto his own. Jonathan began squirm, feeling tears spill down his cheek, and Dracula held him tighter until it hurt.

“Johnny, Johnny, it’s alright” He whispered, his lips by his neck, “hush, it’s-“

Jonathan wrenched back, wincing as Dracula’s nails scratched his face. He felt himself begin to panic, desperate breaths choking on the air.

“But they were your brides!” he managed, his limbs all energy and stillness at once. Jonathan desperately wiped at the blood, his hand coming away sticky, like oil, and gagged.

Dracula considered him for a moment, frantically battering his wings against the cage, and laughed.

“Oh my love, they were nothing compared to you. Don’t you see how special you are?” Dracula soothed with his voice, then his hands, running them down the line of Jonathan’s arm until he reached his hand.

“Jonathan you’re different, you’re so beautiful like this. Like me.” 

Tentative fingers reached out to his, curling coldly around his skin as Dracula’s words embraced him.

“Johnny, we have everything.”

He wound his fingers in his, holding them tight. Jonathan’s blood thawed.

“No.”

He clenched his jaw, watching and wincing as Dracula frowned at him puzzled, like he was a child.

“No?”

“No, you’ve taken everything from me. And you keep wanting more.”

Jonathan’s voice faltered on the last word, stammering as he pried his hands away. His heart was in staccato, beating with everything he had. Everything he had left.

“Jonathan you know that’s not true, I’ve given you so much. I gave you myself.” Dracula smiled in amusement, tilting his head before reaching out to cup Jonathan’s cheek.

“I didn’t want it, I don’t” he spat, then in panic, backed away until his back hit the heavy wooden box with a thump.

“You took everything from them! They were just pets, experiments to you!”

He scrabbled at the wood, not looking away for a second as he slid himself around its surface, placing the box in between him and Dracula.

Dracula looked bemused, catching his tongue between his teeth as he stifled a laugh.

“Now, look-“ 

“That’s what I am too.” He felt like he did in the crypt, trapped, his heart in his mouth. “I always knew you were a monster, but I once thought that you could be a man.”

“Don’t break my heart.” He sighed, dancing sharp and bloody fingertips on the wood.

“This is what this has all been. You don’t-” Jonathan shouting, holding himself close to the box until his knuckles grew white.

“What? I don’t what Jonathan? I don’t care?” and suddenly Dracula’s expression snapped. He smiled, like a wolf, bearing his fangs as his voice boomed.

“You-“ but Jonathan was drowned out.

Dracula mirrored Jonathan, prowling around the box like it was some hunt. He had never felt smaller, under the excruciating burn of dark, too dark, and too red eyes.

“I don’t care for the pathetic little Englishman and the life he never lived. No, you’re right, I never cared for him.” He hissed.

His leg bumped into the glass, and Jonathan startled back. He could see from the side that the hatch was wide open, and his eyes stuck on something through the glass that glittered.

“With me, Johnathan, you aren’t that man anymore. You are so much more, so much better than-“

Jonathan had a plan. He had had a plan, and now…

His crying stopped as he noticed the other figure in the corner of the room.

She lay, with black blood pooled around her like a mirror, heavy on the floor. Despite the blood, and the light, he could tell she was fair, pale, and looked so bright. Her dress had once been blue, before the tears, and dirt, and blood. Her fair was round, even pink, with long tangled blonde hair around her head.

“Mina.”

He gasped, and he couldn’t stop his cry even if he tried. He remembered her face: her beautiful brown eyes and that smile, the smile that was like bathing in endless sunlight! She was Mina! His precious, clever, beautiful- and Jonathan knew, knew it wasn’t her. Knew it wasn’t her face that was slashed down once side, or skin mottled with bites and cuts, but God, it was a wonderful and terrible thing.

“What?” Dracula snapped, demanding his attention.

The girl lay there, dead, and pointing, and Jonathan _knew_.

He met his gaze for a moment, opening his mouth as if to say something before he lunged forward, diving into the open hatch. He heard the thump of fast footsteps as he scrabbled behind the plank, ignoring the twist and snap of splinters. Heart in his throat, his hands closed around something cold, and metal, and his blood tasted like fire. He pulled, as hard as he could, tasting the iron and the ash, and the shadow at the hatch stilled and bent to face him with burning eyes-

And the figure howled, falling back from his lunge as Jonathan’s hands quivered around the crucifix.

He held it in both hands, crawling forward out of the shadows as Dracula slithered back into his. It was silver, simple engravings curled up its sides that Jonathan wanted to kiss. 

He slowly removed a hand, reaching out to steady himself as he stood up, and the crucifix caught the sun quite beautifully. It seemed almost pink, dripping with light, red against the white of his hands as he advanced forward to the deepest shadow.

The figure hissed, writhed in its presence, and Jonathan realised he was numb to the screams. Numb to the pain that sizzled at his fingers, and the burning lap of the sun at his skin.

Jonathan looked down at the creature, looking back at him between his hands. Maybe the thing was speaking, but it was like an animal, it’s words without any human rhythm. Maybe it was pleading, maybe it was praising, the words fell the same on his skin- milk and honey. Jonathan, bathed in the light, whispered to the shadow: 

“I am so much better than you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn about getting attached to characters.  
> Well, well, well, I won't stay too long. This turn has been coming for a LONG time, so I hope you enjoyed the run up to it, and maybe pick up the hints and motifs I left as well as foreshadowing? If not, you might as well give it another read.  
> Please, please yell at me in the comments. Verbal punching bag. Your comments for the almost kiss were so amazing and funny and genuine, that I almost felt guilty writing this one. Almost.  
> Strap in folks, but the story's not over yet.  
> xx


	20. Steel and Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I’ll smile as I climb the stairs (to the light)  
> To the light that you keep burning there (all hell)  
> And our muscles that are waltzing and our shadows that are bold sing  
> Come rip up the flesh of my fears' Kind, The Amazing Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy,

“Hush now,” she whispered, stroking a hand down the mare’s nose. She clicked her hooves disapprovingly at the dripping roof of the stables.

“I know, far from home huh?”

The horse huffed. Mina was inclined to agree, biting back a smile as it shook its neck, splattering her with water.

Over, or under, she furrowed her brow trying to remember the knot, tying the reins to a post. The rope was coarse, giving her hair-thin splinters, and her hands had never looked so red. The stables were suddenly draped in light: a figure from the open door motioning to her, and her shadow dipped long across the straw.

The inn smelt like wet hay and mud, with a coughing fire in the corner making the air hazy. Black muddy footprints marred the wooden floor, and Mina treaded carefully. They were miles out of town, where the treelines grew so thick that she couldn’t see far from the dirt path. But, she remembered, it had to be worth it.

Agatha swept through the small crowd at the bar like through water, pulling Mina by her coat sleeves. Once they were sat in a small, smoke-filled corner by the fire, she peeled her sodden coat from herself, shivering.

“Here, let me-“ and Agatha reached out a hand, taking her coat and laying it by the fireplace. Tendrils of steam began to rise from the damp cloth, and Mina almost sighed as the fire spat and crackled warmth.

They sat there for a while, Mina waiting until the feeling came back to her toes before speaking, watching Agatha secretly.

“Why do you do this Agatha?”

Agatha seemed to blink out of her thoughts, tightening back from how she had stretched in the fire’s glow. She looked at her, owlishly.

“Because it’s in my blood Mina, I must do it.” she sighed, her hand briefly resting by her neck, where a cross might have hung once, before laying on her lap.

“Blood,” she frowned, shaking her head, “it doesn’t make any sense.”

Agatha seemed to smile at Mina’s disappointment, watching as the girl tossed her hair from her eyes, where it had fell loosely from its ties. 

_It doesn’t have to_ , she thought, hiding her inner monologue under a chuckle, now as Mina huffed with her unruly hair. Watching Mina, watching this young woman, Agatha keened for wanting. Wanted what she had never been given, never understood- all she had known was blood and wood and paper, not the soft laces and softer glances her companion knew.

Blood didn’t make sense. Blood, and the way it knitted together in clots and ties, and flowed between person to person, had no reason, no logic that Agatha could study with aching eyes and sputtering candles. The blood that hummed within her, one day pooling cold and still, was the same scarlet as Mina’s.

Not like that was ever how it worked.

Blood, she remembered, was the whole reason they were here. Pretending to adjust her veil, she glanced around the inn. Drunken patrons, their faces red with ale and smoke. Agatha didn’t need to pretend to look repulsed as a man sauntered to the bar, grabbing with clammy hands the woman next to him. Still, better be worth it, she glanced again to the murky window, where the light was trickling to just a drop in the sunset. This blood, what she had heard from her acquaintance further up the river, and how her mind had bolted with such news. It needed to be true.

Agatha’s thoughts were shaken a little by Mina, or rather, the way Mina seemed to stare at something behind her. She turned a little, noticing the older woman shuddering, almost hopping from foot to foot behind her. Her hands were clasped in front her, her greying hair pulled into a cap. Someone at the bar seemed to wave for her, but the woman couldn’t of heard it, rehearsing something under her breath with a drawn expression.

“Are you alright Ma’am?” Mina asked, leaning forward delicately, her eyes wide and open.

Broken from the trance, the woman shook her head harshly, once, twice, before shuffling over to them. She moved as if she was numb, encumbered by the dirty apron she wore, tied so tight around her waist is looked like it would leave marks.

“Do- do you want to order anything to drink?” she spoke, her voice quick and breathy.

Agatha frowned, her brow falling as the woman looked over them anxiously. Too anxiously for a bar-lady looking for coin.

“No, we’re satisfied as we are.”

The woman still seemed to vibrate in place, her hands red and raw as they clung to themselves.

“Do you-“ Mina began, looking up towards the woman with a kind expression, “-want anything?”

Her words lingered in the air for a moment, and Agatha almost admired how Mina could keep so calm, so kind, despite the strangeness around them. Mina looked like she would share her seat, wrap her soft arms around a stranger just to console them, Agatha felt like steel in comparison.

The woman leaned forward harshly, her thin, pink lips muttering.

“I have heard… things. About you, Sister. Is it true that you know-“

“Would you like to sit down” Agatha interrupted sharply, her voice flat and her eye steely. The woman shook her head again, wincing as the clamouring at the bar got louder, and someone yelled out her name.

“Are you?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

Agatha spoke, but she displayed no trace of giving herself away. The woman, in comparison, coiled like a spring, her eyes blinking rapidly and red.

“Please, my family, we need your help.” She pleaded, soft enough that the crackle of the fire broke it.

“What is the matter?” Mina implored, reaching an open hand out, only to be brushed off by the woman’s harsh shakes. Her eyes darted to Agatha for help, for comprehension, yet she still stared the woman down.

“I can’t- I don’t know it. Please.” She begged.

Agatha’s face was set, her jaw stern and if anyone had been watching, really watching, they would have seen how her fingers reached into her pocket. She counted the prayer beads, rolling the soft marbles over with her thumb. The woman’s eyes rested on her cross, her habit, anything but her own.

“Please.” Her withered hands shook.

Agatha paused, watching, waiting as the inn seemed to fall quiet in the way only eavesdropping talk can. The murmured silence, where words are said but never meant, only sounds to prolong the disguise. She counted again, counted until the beads were warm with her body heat.

She nodded, quickly.

The woman seemed to sag, unclasping her hands and taking little steps backwards, her eyes darting between their faces. Mina grabbed one of the bags, something in the way the woman had peered into them told her they needed it, and they followed her outside.

The rain was coming faster now, Agatha could feel it under her hood, and she cursed leaving her coat by the fire. It kicked up dust when it fell to the ground, the foot-broken pathway melting into mud. The woman scuttled like a mouse, hurrying around the beams of the building, pausing every footstep to check they were still there. Leading them behind the inn, she noticed the small building squeezed between trees, so shrouded in shadow she would have never noticed it the first time. The woman rose her welted hand, rapping against the thick iron bars of the door. This building was much sturdier than the stables, the wood that barred the windows looked fresh, almost orange in the light.

Agatha was about to turn to Mina when a flicker of light from inside awoke, and trailed to the doorway. Several heavy clunks of unlocking later, the door opened gingerly with a groan. A man stood, wedging himself in the gap between door and frame, a candle flickering threateningly in his hand. Maybe it was the light, but he had deep lines in his face, his eyes dark and heavy. The woman spoke a few words, hushed, right to his ear, and as the man leaned forward Agatha noticed the slither of silver wedding ring.

She also noticed the angry gashes along the man’s hand.

His voice was rough, like sandpaper, and his eyes squinted at them as he looked them over.

“You think you can help?” he asked, warily.

He started to shake his head, barely looking for a response as the woman worried, whispering to him more loudly as he spat back. The grabbed at his hand, clasping for the red raw flesh there, and he almost flinched. Agatha stood still, her eyes puzzling, before clearing her throat:

“We can do what we can. Now, will you let us inside?”

The man turned to her, his expression fiery, before extinguishing immediately with Agatha’s cold, stern gaze. She didn’t much appreciate standing in the cold, and despite Mina’s shivers, Agatha stood like a wall. Her hands clasped behind her, formidable in all her height and attitude, she cocked her head as the man stuttered, them stumbled back.

“Thank you.” She smiled patiently up at him, stepping into the embrace of the new darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Short one this time, soon to come, schedule unexpectedly changed because of weather D:  
> Talk to me! This thing is in the plans of wrapping up, so I'm interested in what you might want to see me write next. Any fandoms/ideas send my way, I've already got a couple oneshots in the works that will be relaxing after this big hunk of thing.  
> Thank you again x


	21. Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'White snowdrops were piercing through the dark soil, thick and heavy with snowmelt. The convent looked bordered with pearls, glistening in the dew, the cold stone blue.'  
> ~  
> Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Her eyes took a minute to adjust, but eventually the fog receded, and she blinked painfully at the candlelight. The room was sparse, strangely sparse for a cabin- with its windows knocked through, shards of glass glittering on the floor. The smell hit her first, then the sound, the scratching, scraping and twisting tug that came from where the shadows clutched.

Agatha turned to Mina, holding a hand to her chest, and Mina nodded quickly before starting back to the dark corner of the room. She seemed to stumble back, when the shadows hissed, a death-rattle prolonged.

Agatha took a step forward, the rays of light following the nun timidly, afraid of the snapping, scratching sounds that would snatch them to the shadows.

A shadow rose up amongst the rest, and Agatha heard Mina gasp, so lightly under her breath. The boy, although he could hardly be called that now, sat pale and black under the candlelight.

He was lashed to the chair with rope as thick as her thumb, which was splattered with the black substance that flecked his chin and mouth. His eyes were frantic, dark and red, and he champed his teeth together, a horrible cracking sound filling the air.

She turned back quickly to the husband and wife, their faces almost as pale as the boy.

“Where did you find him?”

The man started, unclasping his hands foolishly before clasping them again at Agatha’s tone.

“By- by the river. He washed up by the river.” He stuttered.

The boy fell quieter, his muscles throbbing and straining against his bindings silently. His mouth seemed to open and close, without any noise except the wheeze of air filling his lungs.

“How long have you kept him- do you know who he is?” she enquired, a little kinder. He was young, newly turned, that much was clear by the still pink scars on his neck.

The man grasped the woman’s shoulders, his thick fingers digging into her clothes. The woman’s lips trembled, then broke, her breaths turning into sobs. He was almost dumbfounded by her cries, holding her yet tighter, speaking to the damp floorboards:

“He’s our son.”

Mina’s hands twitched, aching to pull the woman to and comfort her, yet Agatha held her back with a look. The couple were pale, their skin taut against the skull in a way starvation couldn’t do. Even now, as Agatha held back Mina’s hand, she could tell she sensed it too.

“You didn’t… feed him, did you?”

The woman sobbed, clenching her hands so tight they wrung red. The droplets fell slowly, like thick cream, splattering on the dusty wood. The quietness choked by how the boy thrashed and hissed, pulling himself apart in ways almost not possible.

Agatha felt a stab of urgency in her, reaching quickly for the bag Mina was carrying. She rummaged through it, her hands closing around something familiar, something warm.

She stepped between the couple and the boy, glad at how Mina tripped back into the cabin wall, plastering herself to it.

“You love your son very much, you’d do anything for him, but this-“ and she pointed at the writhing creature, “is no longer him.”

If it weren’t for his hold, the woman would have sunk to her knees, almost reaching out for the boy. Any moments longer and they would be deaf to her words, their eyes already glazed over. Desperately, she yanked her cross from under her habitat, glowing silver and glittering in the candlelight. She held it between her fingers, pulling her neck as she outstretched it.

“His spirit, his spirit has moved on. His prayers were not in vain, have faith!”

The wind rapped hard against the cabin walls, almost like it would blow the structure inside out. The air felt tight, pushing pressure against her body to the rhythm of the woman’s sobs. She looked to Mina, and her eyes told her what to do. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, she crept forward until she could touch the couples hands in her own.

“Have faith.” She whispered, her cold hands against their skin- red and raw.

Sobs turned to chokes, then to whimpers, and the man wiped hot tears from his nose. Now Mina, so trembling, outstretched her hand to them.

“Come, come, let’s look for the stars.” She asked, all that she asked of them as Agatha passed their hands from herself to Mina. Mina took them gratefully, smiling shyly up at her, despite the wind and the rain and the monsters, nodding.

The wind pulled the door to with a bang, and Agatha turned back to the chair.

She kept the cross in her hand, holding it out to him. He quirked his head, limbs still fighting, his face screwed up like a knot. As he gulped in the air, she counted his teeth, barely sharp, but pearly white. Like seashells. She inched closer. 

The boy fell silent, all except for his panting breaths as he scented her, watching the thrum of her veins mesmerized. A dash of light caught his eye, and he trailed it, biting his teeth.

He blinked up at her, owlishly, his eyes fixed to the flickering reflections of her cross. Agatha stilled herself, raising a hand to it whilst the other flexed and steadied. Counting the grooves of the wood, the rings of the tree- she tugged hard at the cross, and it came loose. It dangled delicate in her fingers, and the boys head waved like the gentle lulling laps of a stream. It caught the light just so, hanging where their eyes met, and the boy’s eyes sparkled in its reflections. 

The wood felt warm to the touch- body heat- and malleable under her hand. The boy stared, the crucifix blinked, and Agatha closed her eyes.

~

Later, Agatha pressed the broken cross into the woman’s hands, folding her fingers around it before clasping her hand to utter words of advice. Burning was preferable- and the woman’s hands felt hot under her own- very deep soil would also- the tiny gemstones of the crucifix dug into her skin.

The rain had eased a little, her habit fluttering under the wind as she pulled it tighter to herself. The sky was dark, only the faintest traces of silver on the treeline, as she ran her fingers through her mare’s mane. She seemingly wasn’t distressed by what happened, chewing slowly and happily on the piles of straw that thankfully had kept dry.

Agatha smiled as Mina mounted the horse with trouble, nearly toppling over the over side when she managed to sit in the saddle. Her hand was twisted and damp in the rain, curling neatly around her eyes and ears, a muted shade of blonde. 

She squeezed her hands together, feeling the cold vial she held there. She slipped it in her breast pocket, in fear it might shatter in the saddlebag, with the journey ahead of them. In her haste, her galloping, all of this could go to waste, she thought as the dark liquid swirled silkily in the moonlight. A few drops, nothing more than a papercut, and yet…

The horse chuffed at Agatha’s hesitation, tossing its head to either ride or leave it alone with the hay. Mina giggled, and Agatha trotted past her with a wink into the night.

“I thought you didn’t believe.” Mina spoke, the moon high above them.

From the corner of her eye, the moon’s crescent bracketed Mina’s face like a halo, her eyes bright and wide despite the light.

“I don’t,” and she spurred her horse onwards with a gentle kick.

She heard Mina huff, not content with just the tramp of hooves on mud, she trotted again up to her side.

“Why make people have faith when you yourself lack it?” she asked, her eyes fixed upon Agatha’s distant stare.

She waited, watching the stars trail lazily through the canopy, before sighing as Mina stubbornly kept up.

“People… like to believe there is an order to things. That we aren’t the creatures who are responsible for the evils of this world, and certainly that we don’t have to fix them.”

Had she not seen it? Had she not heard it whispered through metal grates, or into rosaries. Spoken to the marble floors as their knees bent and shook with pain. Agatha wanted to believe, like her rosary, that the stars could be all pulled into line on a string, tied around the world like a string of pearls. The beads were cold, like the distant blink of those white lights.

“That’s not true.” Mina declared, quietly, between the low breaths of her mare.

Agatha shot her a look, but she was affixed to the stars, bundling the reins in her hands.

“Faith is a compass, but it does not make me step towards it’s arrow. Why, if faith was some outer, all encompassing thing, could then people not believe? Are they foolish?”

She bit her lip in her silence. Despite the slow stream of the lights of the town dancing along their legs, she didn’t speak- the darkness no longer veiling her face. The soft tramp of grass was replaced by gentle hoofbeats on cobble, echoing whole and clear in the thin air.

“Thought so. No, I believe-“ Mina paused, gathering together her expression, “We all have our own faith’s Agatha, you just don’t know yours yet.”

_I hope that you’re right,_ she wanted to whisper, yet her breath faded in clouds of condensation in the air. White snowdrops were piercing through the dark soil, thick and heavy with snowmelt. The convent looked bordered with pearls, glistening in the dew, the cold stone blue.

“I believe in this cross. I believe it can protect me. You, the same, but-“

Her voice above the clatter of horses on the courtyard stone was stifled as someone cried out, fast footsteps through the corridors. Not so many lights were lighted at once, as the Mother Superior held a candelabra in her strong arm, waiting by chapel entrance. 

Her feet smarted as she hit the floor, not bothering to dismount gently. Behind her imposing figure, more nuns sheltered in the light, huddling close to where the rays flickered on the cobble. They wrung their crosses in hand, looking up at her shyly as Agatha asked why there was such a commotion at this time. The candles flickered uncertainly in the wind, as if bending to hide in their own light as well.

Her gaze flicked up to the one lit window as the Mother spoke, a shy and lonely figure casting its shadow across her own.

“I believe you have a guest, Sister Agatha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like imagery and fine things what can I say?  
> Also vampire hunting team Agatha and Mina? Please.  
> Please tell me what you think in the comments below, or if you have anything you wanna chat about. I also really appreciate all the kudos and bookmarks, thank you so much for your support.

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think?
> 
> This is a start of a little project, inspired by the series that was very good until it wasn't. There are so many good Dracula blogs out there that are chuck-full of inspiration, I know I relied a little on those to keep me going. If you have any feedback, or any ideas for what might be inetresting to explore from the series please let me know. I'm partly writing this to dig a little deeper into some of the themes I felt where a little... untouched. Also I am using hurt/comfort prompts to guide my chapters so if you have one you want to see drop a comment.
> 
> Pandering aside, thank you for reading. It's gonna get juicy, I promise.


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